


Waiting For You

by whiskygalore



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: DCBB 2013, Hurt Jensen Ackles, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Permanent Injury, Swearing, discussion of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskygalore/pseuds/whiskygalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha’s life is awesome. He has great friends, a successful career as an artist and a simple approach to his love life; no complications, no emotions, hook up, get off, and get out. The night a drunk driver plows into his friend Jensen though, everything changes. Jensen’s fight to survive and his devastating injuries will shatter Misha’s uncomplicated lifestyle for ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting For You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dean/Cas Bigbang challenge and my god... what a challenge!! I have loved and hated this story in equal measure while writing it and am more nervous about posting this than anything I've written before. This story was originally inspired by Rudimental's Waiting All Night video but really has absolutely nothing to do with it or Kurt Yaeger who starred in it. I need to thank my wonderful beta dimeliora who sorted out my grammar, reigned in my excess schmoopiness and saved you all from my weird untranslatable British expressions. I'd like to thank saltandburnboys too, because she has no idea how much her words of encouragement helped to keep me going when things got rough during the editing. More thanks to the mods at deancasbigbang for the smooth running of such a huge challenge and finally - I promise - immeasurable thanks to hrymfaxe for her endless patience, help, enthusiasm and her breath-taking artwork. I feel incredibly lucky to have had the chance to work with someone so lovely and talented over the past couple of months. Please rush over and show your appreciation for her stunning artwork!

   
  
  
 **Chapter One**  
  
  
"Christ, your mouth's amazing." Misha's head tips backwards and hits against the flimsy stall door. The blonde-haired twink kneeling between his thighs gives a moan of approval at the compliment and reaches down to unzip the fly of his jeans, fumbling to get a hand on his own cock. The thudding bass beat of dance music blaring through the club pounds in the air of the washroom, along with the less than pleasant sound and smell of piss splashing against the urinal and someone throwing up in the stall next to them. A fist thumps twice on the other side of the door that Misha's leaning against, accompanied by slurred cursing and a stumble of retreating footsteps.  
  
Ignoring it all, Misha grabs a fistful of cock-sucking guy's curly hair and pulls him in close until wet heat surrounds almost the full length of his erection. An appreciative grunt punches out of Misha as the kid chokes and gags trying to swallow him all the way down, his throat rippling and squeezing around Misha's cock. Misha's eyes slam shut, his back arches, and his fingers twist in the kid's hair; hot fucking damn, what in the world could feel better than this? He tugs Curly back off before there's any chance of retching. Puke on your cock is seriously disgusting.  
  
This kid is one determined cocksucker though; he wraps his lips back around Misha's dick after barely taking a breath, spit dribbling down his chin and eyes watering. Misha's hips thrust forward in a lazy rhythm fucking his cock into the boy's mouth. "Yeah that's it, suck it, c'mon. So desperate for it, aren't you?"  
  
This is the best damn blow-job Misha's had in weeks. Curly hair kid knows what he’s doing; sucking and moaning like he’s auditioning to be a porn star, jacking his own cock while looking up at Misha through sandy eyelashes. This kid might even be worth spending a night with. His ass certainly looked perky enough in those skinny jeans. Misha is contemplating asking the kid if he has somewhere they can head back to when the back pocket of his jeans springs to life. His new iPhone is quacking against his ass. Seriously, quacking? Goddamn it, he knew he shouldn't have let that pimple-faced brat in the store set it up for him. Ignoring the vibrations in his back pocket and the quacking of increasingly irate ducks, Misha quickens his pace, hoping the fingers digging into his thigh mean 'yeah harder' and not 'get your dick out of my throat'.  
  
The third time his chorus of ducks start up, Misha loses his concentration and very nearly his hard-on. Ignoring the incredulous look of the guy still swallowing his dick like a pro, he digs his cell out of pocket and snaps out a terse, "What?"  
  
"Misha...Misha...thank fuck. It's Jensen man...he's...shit Misha, he's..."  
  
Jared's voice is weird. High pitched and cracking, breathy, off. Then ominously silent. Misha's world tilts. Jared... Jared is never lost for words. Not ever. He barely registers the mouth on his cock pulling off with a sloppy pop.  
  
"Jared, what is it? What's happened?"  
  
A choked sob from Jared is the only answer for terrifying seconds before he calms enough to reply. "Jensen. There was an accident. He's...he's...shit, it’s bad Misha. Just get here please."  
  
"Where are you?" Misha's strips the rubber off his cock, dumps it on the floor before tucking his rapidly softening dick back in his pants, ignoring the scowling upturned face in front of him.  
  
"Saint Michael's. We're at Saint Michael's."  
  
"I’ll be there in fifteen minutes." Misha shoves his cell back in his pocket and finishes zipping himself up.  
  
"What the hell, Misha?" The twink kneeling on the sticky tiled floor still has his dick in his hand and a pissed expression on his face. Misha's surprised the kid knows his name; Misha sure as hell doesn't know Curly's. Names aren't particularly pertinent in these encounters.  
  
"Sorry, man." Misha tries to maneuver around the confined stall so he can open the door but it's impossible with the two of them squeezed into such a tight space, especially when one of them is still stubbornly on his knees. Panic and worry spiral rapidly into frustrated impatience. "Will you fucking stand up? I need to get out of here."  
  
"Jesus, you really are an asshole! I know you're not into relationships but I thought I could count on you not running off during a ten minute blow-job."  
  
The guy’s barely had a chance to rise to his feet before Misha shoves him backwards - hard, almost sending him ass first into the seatless toilet. "Listen you little dickhead, my friends need me so shut your whiny mouth and get the hell out of my way."  
  
Misha unlocks the stall door and storms from the washrooms ignoring the barrage of profanities projected at his departing back.  
  
It's like battling through a labyrinth, trying to find the exit of the club; fear and dread crushing him as much as the scores of club goers surging against him. It's hotter than hell. The walls feel like they're closing in on him. A line of sweat drips down the back of his neck as body after body presses against him while he fights his way upstream. Finally pushing past the last hurdle of two towering bouncers, Misha bursts through the door gasping in deep lungfuls of night air like a drowning man. He has to wait a second for the rolling nausea in his guts to settle before he grabs the first cab he can find. Slamming the car door behind him he barks out the name of the hospital like machine-gun fire to the startled cabbie.  
  
Sitting rigidly in the backseat of the car, Misha's not even aware that the cab driver's eyes keep flickering to his rear-view mirror, glancing anxiously at him. All he can think of is Jensen. Jensen the nicest guy on the planet. Jensen, who'd been born with the sculpted face of a supermodel and the body of a Greek God but the down to earth attitude and modesty of a farm boy from Texas.  
  
Jensen, Jared, and Misha have been friends for years now, the three musketeers or possibly the three stooges. Jared and Misha were friends first. Jared moved to California with his parents when he was thirteen and Misha had adopted the chubby little Texan with the big dimples and the funny accent as his best friend on the first day of high school. Four years later, when graduation rolled around, Jared was a head taller than him and the star quarterback with the cute cheerleader girlfriend while Misha was the weird arty gay kid, but they were still inseparable. And if they'd chosen to go to the same college it was purely because it was the best option for both of them, nothing to do with being scared shitless at leaving home and growing up without their best friend around, despite what anyone – everyone - else said.  
  
College brought new challenges. Some exciting, some utterly boring - like figuring out how to work the washers in the laundrette - and some terrifying - like briefly, very briefly, sharing a dorm with a room-mate who popped weird-ass pills and built an altar to worship Satan beside his bed. They also picked up some new friends including one Jensen Ackles, Jared's freshman roommate; a fellow Texan and as cool and aloof as Jared was warm and bubbling with life. Jared had taken the quiet kid under his wing, dragging him, quite literally sometimes, into their little group of friends whether he - or they - liked it or not.  
  
Misha had hated the boy on sight. Too reserved, too much of a tight-ass, far too fucking pretty with his floppy mop of dark blonde hair and wide green eyes, and with a way of looking at Misha that made him feel like a three-headed bug under a magnifying glass. It had taken a bottle of illicitly acquired tequila and the first in a long line of spectacular hangovers to discover that Jensen was actually painfully shy, caustically sarcastic, in possession of a wicked sense of humor, and so terrified of the fact he was gay that he’d buried himself nose-deep under a mountain of winter coats at the very back of his closet where even spiders feared to tread.  
  
College had transformed them all. Jensen most of all and at the biggest cost.  
  
"Where do you want me to drop you?"  
  
Misha jumps in his seat at the question. "I... I don't know." His usually razor-sharp mind's gone completely blank. "The emergency room, I guess."  
  
The cabbie nods and draws up smoothly a minute later outside a wide, brightly lit doorway.  
  
"Thanks," grabbing a couple of bills from his wallet, Misha shoves them blindly at the driver before taking off at a sprint into the hospital.  
  
The room he finds himself in is an assault to the senses. It's loud, harshly illuminated with flickering fluorescent lights and an underlying odor of disinfectant that doesn't camouflage the sour smells that Misha would rather not identify. Rows of green plastic chairs are over-flowing with people, at least half of whom are apparently drunk, high, or asleep. Misha's stomach sinks when he can't see any sign of Jared. He wants - no - he needs to know what's going on.  
  
The receptionist - a scowling sumo-wrestler sized man - is less than helpful; Misha's abrupt and loud demands for information probably don’t win him any favors and it takes an age before he's finally escorted through the hospital to a small private waiting room where he at last finds Jared. He has Gen curled into his side; both are blotchy-faced and tense. Their clothes are soiled with rust red splotches that can only be dried blood. A matted clump of Jared's hair is sticking out at right angles and his fingernails are stained red.  
  
Misha stands silently in the doorway staring at them and the desperate need to know what's going on suddenly vanishes. Fuck it; he doesn't want to know anything. Ignorance is fine; ignorance is totally underrated.  
  
"Misha!" Jared's watery eyes fly to him. "Thank god you're here. I didn't know what to do... who to call. Chris is back in Dallas. He's coming but he's got to catch a flight and I don't know how long... and Tom's in fucking Rome and I couldn't get hold of him."  
  
"Jared!" Misha's feet are glued to the spot, his body numb and immobile so it’s a relief to hear his voice still working even if he barely recognises the throaty growl. "What happened, where's Jensen?"  
  
Gen extracts herself from Jared's side, walks towards Misha, takes his hand in hers, and leads him towards the chairs, sits him down in between her and Jared. She grips onto his hand surprising fiercely with her slim fingers while Jared chokes and stutters out the chain of events.  
  
"We were meeting up at 'Maloney's'. Gen and I were in a cab. We drove past Jen. He was like two minutes from the bar...just walking down the street. We...we got out of the cab and I turned to see where he was and I waved and he waved back and then...and then this...this idiot in a fucking Prius just drove off the road, straight across the sidewalk, and plowed right into Jensen. Jensen he..."  
  
Jared pauses, swipes his hand across his eyes brushing away the tears spilling down his face. Misha waits, fear paralyzing every muscle, his hand cold and limp in Gen's tight hold.  
  
"He went flying. Knocked off his feet like a fucking rag doll. He went straight into a store window. Glass...there was fucking glass everywhere, man and the car it... it ended up on top of him. Jesus! There was screaming and shouting and the driver just got out without a fucking bruise, just fucking walked away, and Jensen was lying there and the car was on his leg and there was so much fucking blood. His face was cut up and his shirt was soaked through and I didn't know if he was even..." It's too much for Jared and sobs finally drown out words.  
  
Misha thinks he might hurl. He wants to comfort Jared, he really does but this fragile numbness he's feeling is working out just fine for him and he knows if he reaches out, touches Jared, reality is going to seep through him like poison.  
  
He chances a glance at Jared’s face and wishes he hadn't. He looks destroyed. His usually boyish, smiling face is pale, smattered with tears and snot, his eyes blood-shot and shattered. Looking Misha in the eye, he takes a shuddering breath and says, "When they got him out, Misha... his leg, it was mangled. Bones and blood, barely fucking attached and his heart... his heart had stopped beating by the time they got him to hospital. Shock they said, all that blood loss and... shit Mish, it was really bad. They took him away and they wouldn't tell us anything and that's... that's when I called you."  
  
Jensen stopped breathing. Jensen stopped fucking breathing! If Misha thought he was scared before, it's nothing compared to the acidic fear coursing through him now.  
  
"Jared!" Gen snaps from beside him as Misha starts shaking in the chair between them, the uneven metal legs juddering against the vinyl flooring.  
  
"Shit, sorry... sorry! They got him stabilized Misha. They got him back, I promise."  
  
Misha wants to punch Jared in the face; the stupid fucker. Instead, he finds himself hauled tight against Jared's chest, the familiar weight of his friend’s muscled arms wrapped around him, holding him together as his body trembles so violently it feels as though the whole room is shaking.  
  
"What's happening now?" Misha asks as soon as he's capable of speech. He untangles himself from Jared's arms, and stands up slowly on unsteady legs. He needs a bit of space, needs to get his shit together.  
  
Gen slides into his vacant seat, seeking the security of Jared's arms that Misha has abandoned. "They've taken him into surgery. They said it could be a while, they're gonna try and save his leg but the doctor wasn't exactly optimistic."  
  
"So, we just wait then?" It's a stupid question Misha realizes, but it's incomprehensible to be in the middle of this horrendous nightmare and not be able to do anything.  
  
Jared and Gen simply nod, understanding clear in their eyes.  
  
  
Hours pass. Hours. Hours without a word. At some point each of them has stormed out, convinced that someone, somewhere has to know something. Each of them have returned, frustrated and with nothing other than 'still in surgery' to report. Jensen's older cousin, Chris, rushes through the door; a frantic mess, with sweat dripping down his forehead and long hair sticking to his face before there's any news to tell him. Jared eventually manages to reach Jensen's boyfriend Tom, and from what Misha gathers from the stilted side of the conversation he can hear, he's flying home as soon as possible.  
  
"Should we call his parents?" Jared asks Chris, not long after he joins their tense vigil.  
  
"No!" Chris barks, nearly blowing Jared's head off with the ferocity of the word. The scowl Genevieve shoots him has him apologizing before she even opens her mouth to complain though. "Sorry... sorry... just no; they don't deserve to know shit right now. We'll ask Jensen if he wants us to call them when he gets out of surgery."  
  
The rest of them nod in total agreement and not one of them asks what happens if Jensen doesn't make it out of surgery.  
  
Still they wait.  
  
  
The doctor, when she eventually appears, looks exhausted. She briefly introduces herself as Jensen's surgeon and asks which one of them is Christian Kane; explains that Jensen has him registered as next of kin. That simple phrase - next of kin - freezes the blood in Misha’s veins. Doesn’t that mean that Jensen's... that he didn't make it? Blood rushes to his ears, black spots swarm in front of his eyes, block out everything around him. He sinks back down onto the chair that he's just stood up from. Gen's small hand tracing soft circles across his back is the first thing he registers when his head stops spinning. The doctor is still speaking. When he looks up he sees that she is, technically, talking to Chris but she obviously doesn't care that they're all listening.  
  
" - in the SICU. He likely won't regain consciousness for some time. I strongly suggest that you all head home, get some sleep, and come back later."  
  
That's not happening. Not until Misha sees Jensen with his own eyes. Jared vocalizes the same thought.  
  
Looking resigned but unsurprised the doctor concedes to allow them to see Jensen briefly. A nurse, she explains, will take them to Jensen once he's settled. She gives Chris a gentle pat on the shoulder before she leaves but her parting words aren't exactly comforting.  
  
"Jensen came through surgery satisfactorily and he is stable for now, but please remember there is still a long way to go. We are doing our utmost to get him through this with the best possible outcome but he's not out of the woods yet."  
  
They wait silently for the nurse to come and get them. More waiting, they're going to be professional waiters before morning, hold on - what time is it? Goddamn, it already is morning.  
  
Jared and Gen are clinging to each other, Chris is pacing back and forth across the small room, and Misha's sitting with his head in his hands when the door pushes open again and a nurse walks in. She's young and friendly with kind eyes, a big smile, and she's tiny. Seriously, she's smaller than Genevieve. She even makes Chris looks tall.  
  
She takes them to the SICU, her little legs moving so fast Misha has to speed up so he isn’t left behind. She patiently explains about all the tubes, drains, IV’s, and monitors that Jensen is attached to. Misha's ears feel like they're stuffed with cotton balls; he can barely hear what she's saying. He's certainly not taking any of the information in.  
  
Five minutes. That's all they're allowed. After waiting all night, it hardly seems fair.  
  
Jensen is alive. Misha repeats that to himself over and over as he looks at the broken body of his friend. He's barely recognizable. A dressing covers most of the left half of his face. The other half is bruised black and badly swollen. An oxygen mask is strapped over his mouth and nose. A patchwork of angry bruises, scratches, scrapes, and dressings cover his body. His leg is obviously the biggest problem. Misha can't bear to look at it for more than a second. A metal cage, wires, blood, and loose dressings. It's a fucking mess. It's still there though, that's something right?  
  
He kisses a lonely patch of pale skin with a solitary visible freckle on Jensen's neck before a nurse ushers them all from the room, five minutes on the dot from when they entered it.  
  
They leave the hospital in a tight little group. Exhausted, subdued, and crushingly worried. All wholly unprepared to face the harsh morning light of a cheerful California sun and life bustling on around them as though everything is perfectly normal.  
  
Jensen's alive. Misha is still clinging to the thought as he falls asleep an hour later, sitting on his sofa with an untouched glass of whisky slipping from his fingers.  
  
  
  
  
  
The afternoon after that interminable night from hell, Misha had woken up groggy; stinking of the whisky that had soaked through his jeans, pasting them to his thighs, and with a crick in his neck that even the pounding of a steaming hot shower hadn't eased. Drained and worried he'd thought that at least the worst was over. Jensen was alive. Yeah, he was in a bad way, but he was in one piece. He'd made it through a surgery that had lasted longer than some of Misha's relationships - longer than most of his relationships if he was being honest - he was young, fit, and strong with excellent medical insurance and was receiving great care. Sure, he had a long road of recovery to travel down but he was a quietly stubborn bastard with awesome friends. They were totally gonna kick this in the ass.  
  
Five days later, Misha wishes he still possessed that positivity, or maybe naivety.  
  
Jensen is still in the SICU. He still has an oxygen mask covering his face and more wires and tubes attached to him than Misha wants to count. He's holding his own for now but Misha is very aware of the growing concern emanating from the endless parade of medical personnel passing through.  
  
Misha doesn't know everything that's going on, or more specifically going wrong. He's content to bury his head in the sand, happy to sit staring at the comforting sight of Jensen's chest moving, waiting for the brief moments that he shows signs of alertness, while Jared and Chris discuss every rise in temperature, dip in blood pressure and beeping monitor alarm with whatever nurse or doctor is in the room. They've been assured that it's the heavy duty pain meds and sedatives Jensen's on that are keeping him out of it most of the time, but it's still disconcerting to see his friend so unnaturally still for so long. When he does fight his way to a brief moment of consciousness, Jensen is confused and in pain. He panics and struggles against the tubes and oxygen mask that are pinning him down, sending his heart monitor into conniptions. At one point the nurses had put him in restraints so he wouldn't cause himself any more damage by yanking out the vital apparatus again. Distraught, Misha had left the room in tears. He'd not been the only one.  
  
Misha, Jared, and Chris are at Jensen's bedside as often as possible. They don't take shifts exactly but nag each other into sleeping and eating so usually it works out that one of them has a break while the other two are at the hospital.  
  
The rest of Jensen's friends frequently call for updates, but have all been persuaded to delay visiting until Jensen is out of Intensive Care. His agents, informed of the situation, have thankfully dealt with some of the press that have called the hospital for information. Jensen Ackles isn't exactly a household name but he's been the ridiculously perfect face - and body - of several high profile advertisement campaigns, strutted his stuff down runways in London, Paris, Rome, and New York, not to mention the spread he'd done for 'Out' that had provided enough fodder for Jared and Misha to mock him about for months. Anyway, apparently he's famous enough to make news when mowed down by a drunk driver.  
  
Because of the press interest, Chris had decided to inform Jensen's family about the accident. He couldn't handle talking to them himself but had asked his Mom to speak to them, let them know the basic facts. Misha wasn't sure exactly how it had gone down, but he knew that Chris's mom was no longer talking to her brother or sister-in-law and Chris's hand looked like it had collided with a wall.  
  
Three nights ago, just as the nurses were persuading Chris, Misha, and Jared all to head home and properly rest, Tom had eventually turned up at the hospital, looking remarkably refreshed for someone who had just endured a thirteen hour flight. He'd stayed barely twenty minutes; just long enough to ask how Jensen was doing and act like the concerned boyfriend. He hadn't once spoken to Jensen, hadn't come close to touching him. The desire to punch Tom's perfectly proportioned face had nearly been over-whelming especially as Misha - furious that Tom was taking so long to catch a flight home - had done a quick Google search and discovered photos of the narcissistic douche-bag walking the runway at a Valentino show the day after Jensen's accident. This piece of information he hasn't passed on to Chris or Jared. Jensen would be pissed if either ended up with a criminal record for assaulting his boyfriend.  
  
Today, when Misha had turned up at the hospital Tom unsurprisingly had not been there, Chris however was. Standing by the nurses’ station, he'd been deep in conversation with one of the doctors. The intense expression clouding the doctor's face and the way that Chris's hands had curled into tense fists at his side indicated that the news was not good.  
  
Misha holds Jensen's hand. He'd never held Jensen's hand until five days ago. They'd thrown their arms around one another's shoulders, hugged, kissed a couple of times just to piss off the homophobic ass in Jensen's favourite cafe, they'd punched each other on one memorable occasion, but they'd never held hands. Jensen's hand is surprisingly smaller than his, the skin pale and dry, and dotted with freckles. Nine years Misha has known Jensen and somehow he’d never noticed that the freckles that Jensen hated so much on his face were scattered across his entire body. Misha’s thumb gently traces across Jensen’s knuckles; the bones in his hand feel fragile and vulnerable lying lax in his grip.  
  
"He has an infection." Misha glances up at Chris, standing in the doorway. His hair's pulled back in a ponytail, a few greasy strands fall loose around his ear. There's deep dark shadows underlining his eyes that suggest he hasn't slept properly in days.  
  
"I thought they were pumping him full of antibiotics so that wouldn't happen."  
  
Rubbing his hand over his ashen face, Chris's voice is tired and worriedly defeated when he replies. "Apparently it's not working. They said I'm going to have to okay surgery."  
  
"Surgery for what?"  
  
"To amputate his leg."  
  
"Christ!" Jensen's hand twitches in Misha's. When Misha looks across at his face, his eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is moving as though he's trying to speak.  
  
"Do they -” Misha starts but has to stop to gather his scrambled thoughts. "Do they have to? I mean can't they wait? Give him a chance to fight the infection?"  
  
Chris walks round the room and sinks into the empty chair at Misha's side. "They're giving him a few more hours and if there are no signs of improvement then I have to sign the papers to let them take his leg."  
  
"What if you don't?" Misha thinks he knows the answer but he needs to hear it and he suspects Chris needs to say it.  
  
"If I don't, the chances are the infection spreads and he dies."  
  
Misha nods. "You've no choice then, Chris."  
  
"I know... I know... but fuck Misha. What if he hates me?"  
  
Misha can hear the fear in Chris's voice - see the distress in his face. He doesn't envy the guy at all for the heavy weight of responsibility that's balanced on his shoulders.  
  
"What if he dies?" Misha asks. The choice is stark, not even a choice really.  
  
"Shit, this is so fucked up." Chris's head drops forward into his hands. Misha stretches his arm out, pulling Christian into an awkward hug that Chris would usually have to be drunk to tolerate.  
  
"It's going to be okay, Chris. Even if they have to amputate his leg, he's strong enough to recover, to pick himself up and get on with his life."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Chris agrees quietly. "It's just, this is _his_ life you know. I shouldn’t be the one-"  
  
Chris breaks off as Jensen stirs in the bed beside them; his hands flail up, searching for the oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose.  
  
Both Chris and Misha are on their feet and at Jensen's side instantly, gently holding his arms down. If they can calm him, they won't restrain him again. That's definitely something to avoid, for his friends’ sanity if not for Jensen's.  
  
"Hey, Jen. It's okay bud. You're alright. You need to leave the oxygen mask on, it's helping you breathe, okay? Just calm down, Jen, we're here, we've got you. I've got you cous, just relax." The low rumble of Chris's drawled words seems to work. Jensen stops fighting and relaxes under their hands. As he struggles to swim to the surface of consciousness his eyes slowly creep open; they're glassy and unfocused to start with but after a minute he seems to actually see his friends watching him.  
  
Something loosens in Misha's chest when under the mask Jensen's lip twitches up in the poorest effort of a smile he has ever had the good fortune to witness.  
  
"It's about time you woke up. You never could drag your fat ass out of bed could you, lazy bastard." The softness in Misha's voice is at odds with the insults.  
  
Chris and Misha laugh, partly in surprise but mainly in relief when Jensen fractionally raises a single deliberate digit in response.  
  
A nurse strides towards them at that moment, nudging the pair of them out of the way so she can check Jensen's obs, calmly explaining to him the whole time where he is and what's happening. Jensen's eyes stay open for maybe five minutes this time before they flicker shut again. It's not exactly a miracle. Jensen doesn't dramatically sit up or even speak, but it's enough to remind Chris and Misha that underneath the cuts, contusions, and the trailing wires and tubes, Jensen is still Jensen, and Jensen is fighting.  
  
  
Three hours later, Misha is on his way back from the cafeteria. Jared is sitting with Chris and Jensen, and Misha had needed a break away from the noise and lights and the constant tense monitoring of Jensen's temperature and messed up leg. Despite the two visitors to a bed rule, the SICU staff are tolerating them all hanging around today without the usual complaints and although he's grateful for it, Misha's also worried. The fact that Jensen had seemed more aware when he woke up had given them hope that he was fighting back against the infection but the indications are that the infection has the upper-hand now.  
  
He turns the last corner before the Intensive care unit in the maze of white walled corridors he's become all too familiar with when he hears raised voices.  
  
"You aren't serious! You can't let them just hack off his leg!"  
  
"Tom, keep your damn voice down."  
  
Tom and Chris are facing off outside the doors to the unit. Tom staring down at Chris, his hands flapping wildly as he speaks or more accurately yells, and Chris standing still, completely rigid, looking strung out and infinitely more dangerous despite the huge height advantage that Tom has over him.  
  
"What the hell is he going to do without his leg?"  
  
"He's going to live." Chris hisses through gritted teeth.  
  
"Is he going to want to? You really think Jensen is going to want to be some kind of crippled freak for the rest of his life?"  
  
Chris's fist swings up quicker than Misha can move to stop it or Tom can dodge out of the way. It connects with a solid thud to Tom's cheek and Tom staggers backwards, the smooth soles of his expensive leather shoes squeaking across the floor.  
  
Presumably cheering is inappropriate.  
  
"What the hell! You... you asshole. I'm a model you idiot, you can't just... just... I'm gonna sue you for every cent you own!" Tom holds his hand across his bruised cheek, looking at Chris incredulously like he doesn't believe that really happened.  
  
Unperturbed Chris shrugs his shoulders, shaking out his hand, which probably hurts like a bitch seeing as how it was already bruised. "Do what you like son; I really don't give a shit. Just stay the hell away from Jensen and me."  
  
Narrowing his eyes, Tom watches Chris key in the door code for the SICU, leaving him without a backward glance.  
  
"If you even think about pressing charges or suing him, I'll make sure everyone knows exactly why he punched you." Misha says walking up to Tom. "I'm sure when the papers know your stance on disability and how much you value your boyfriend's appearance over his life; they'll have a field day."  
  
"That's not what I -" Tom shakes his head. "I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have said that but look, have you even thought about what Jensen's going to do if he recovers from this. He isn't going to be able to model any more. Is he going to be able to live independently, is he going to have any kind of life? Any kind of life that he would want?"  
  
"You really are an air-headed waste of space aren't you?" Misha can't believe the crap that's spilling from the guy's mouth. "You don't have a fucking clue. It's only his leg. It's not gonna stop him doing anything. People without any limbs live more fulfilling lives than you’ve even dreamt about. If you think Jensen really cares that much about what he looks like, you don't know him at all."  
  
"Misha, I care about him, I do. I just don't think he would want this if there was any chance at all of saving his leg."  
  
Misha doesn't want to listen to Tom's bullshit for another second. Doesn't think he'll be able to without parroting Chris's response. "Look Tom, just go home okay, before Chris tells Jared what you said and he comes out here to finish what Chris started."  
  
Tom raises his hands in acquiescence, letting Misha past.  
  
"Just call and let me know how he is please. I do actually give a shit."  
  
Misha doesn't even acknowledge him before the door to the unit swings closed behind him.  
  
  
  
  
  
"It's the right thing to do." It's not a question, but the lack of conviction behind the statement belies Chris's doubts.  
  
Jared looks at his watch again. About thirty seconds after he last checked the time. "It's the only thing to do. You heard them. The infection was spreading, the antibiotics weren't helping. Operating now means they only have to amputate below the knee. He's going to have an excellent chance of a full recovery. If we'd waited he might have lost his whole leg or developed septicaemia or just goddamn fucking died."  
  
This isn't easy on any of them. They're back to waiting. It's nearly three hours now since Jensen was wheeled away to theater which is nothing compared to the night of the accident but this time, they know the surgery should be finished by now. The longer they have to wait the greater chance there is that something has gone wrong.  
  
"He's young, fit, and healthy. He's going to be up and about in no time. This isn't going to stop him doing anything." Misha tries to recall the reasons the doctor had listed when explaining why surgery was the best decision. "He'll have a better quality of life with a prosthesis than with a permanently fucked up leg that he'd probably never be able to walk on without pain. Even without the infection they might have had to amputate eventually."  
  
"I know, I know." Chris stands up, obviously ready to commence another round of pacing. "Christ, what's taking so long!"  
  
Misha wishes Gen was here now. Her quiet soothing presence is sometimes enough to keep the three of them from exploding when tensions are running high, and by the way Jared's foot is jiggling up and down, his hands clenching and unclenching in some unfathomable pattern, he could use a calming hug from his girlfriend. Jared looks at his watch again. Misha sighs, crosses his arms over his chest, stretches his legs out in front of him, and shuts his eyes, breathes deeply in through his nose, out through his mouth. Attempts to block out the suffocating fear invading the room. It doesn't take longer than three minutes for the tension to predictably boil over.  
  
"Will you sit the fuck down, man? Your pacing is driving me nuts."  
  
"You want me to be like Yoda over there; all calm and fucking zen-like when Jensen could be bleeding out on a goddamn operating table?"  
  
Misha's eyes spring open. "Sit down and shut up, Chris."  
  
"You gonna make me?"  
  
Misha is on his feet before he has a clue of his next move.  
  
"Gentlemen." The door's opened amidst their squabbling and they all turn towards Jensen's surgeon who is standing watching them with an arched eyebrow.  
  
Misha and Chris step back from one another, red faced and embarrassed.  
  
"Is Jensen okay?" Jared speaks first, getting straight to the point.  
  
The Doctor nods. "He's doing fine. He's in recovery for now and we'll move him back down to the SICU shortly. The procedure went well considering how weak the infection and blood loss had left him. Obviously, there's still a way to go but we are cautiously optimistic of a good recovery."  
  
The three of them must look at her with matching blank expressions because her professional mask breaks up revealing a warm, almost motherly smile. "It's good news guys, honestly. He's doing well. I can't make promises but he's a fighter and the odds of him making a full recovery are excellent. He's going to be heavily sedated for at least the next twelve hours. He is not going to wake up, so I think the three of you should head home, sleep, eat, shower, and relax. Come back tomorrow."  
  
"But-" It might be Misha that speaks but likely it's all three of them at once.  
  
The doctor shakes her head and has the same expression that Misha's mother wears when she really means business.  
  
"No. I promise he's going to be out of it. A herd of dancing elephants could parade through his room and he wouldn’t notice. Go home. The next few days... few weeks aren't going to be easy for Jensen. He's going to need all the support he can get from his friends and family so go home, come back later tomorrow, refreshed and prepared to be the pillars of support that Jensen needs. Okay?"  
  
Misha can hardly argue with that sound logic. Apparently neither can Jared or Chris so with handshakes and heart-felt thanks for Jensen's doctor, the three of them traipse out on wearied legs.  
  
  
  
  
The emptiness of Misha's house is resounding after the constant buzz of noise and company in the hospital. Usually, the quiet and solitude is relaxing for Misha; he thrives in his own company. He does love his friends, loves spending time with them, but he's always grateful to come home and spend time on his own, in his own space, with no annoying distractions or irrelevant chatter. He's an unsociable selfish bastard sometimes, but at least he's self-aware enough to acknowledge it.  
  
A long hot shower and microwaved frozen meal later, Misha is restless and jittery. Tired, but too wired to consider sleeping. There is something he can do to unwind but it's undoubtedly a bad idea. That's never stopped him before.  
  
An hour later, dark hair artfully mussed, dressed in ass-hugging dark blue jeans and a tight black tee-shirt that accentuates his wiry figure, he's in one of his favorite bars. Favorite bars for finding an easy lay anyway. He downs two shots of Jack in quick succession before scoping out the room. A few of the usual faces are dotted around, drinking, flirting, hunting for the same thing Misha is tonight. Across the bar, a young guy catches Misha's eyes. He's licking his lips, probably licking the lip gloss from them, and looking at Misha as though he wants to devour him.  
  
Misha orders another shot, knocks the burning liquid down in one swallow, approaches lip-licker with deadly intent, and whispers in his ear exactly what he's looking for. The guy follows him down the stairs to the men's room like a good little puppy dog.  
  
There is no small talk, no kissing. Misha just shoves the guy into the stall at the furthest side of the room, kicks the door shut behind him, unbuckles his belt and shoves his jeans down just far enough to get his dick out. The guy thrusts a packet of lube and a condom into his hands before shoving his own pants down to his knees, spreading his legs, and bending over, bracing his hands against the back wall. Misha jacks his cock a time or two looking at the ass canting up in front of him. It's pert if a bit skinny, not like it really matters. He slips the condom on, dropping the wrapper on the floor to join the used rubbers already lying round his feet, slicks his dick up, and squirts a dollop of lube onto the hole in front of him before pushing slowly in. He's not a complete bastard, doesn't want to hurt the guy bending over for him, so he takes his time; almost casually rocking into him until he feels the muscles clenching around his cock relax and loosen just enough, then he ups his game. One hand clutching the guy's shoulder another gripping his bony hips he quickens his pace until he's slamming into him, forcing breathy moans from the guy's mouth.  
  
It takes longer than normal. Usually Misha's orgasm rushes over him by the time the kid he's fucking is begging for a reach-around, but this time the guy has jacked himself off and is starting to shift uncomfortably as Misha's balls slap against the back of his thighs one last time before he comes with more relief than pleasure into the condom. The post-fuck satisfaction he usually experiences isn't happening though. All he feels is tired, disgusting, and hollowed out.  
  
This time when he drags himself wearily through his front door the emptiness of his home only amplifies the empty black hole in his chest.  
  


**Chapter Two**  
  
Jensen's fine. Apparently. Even though he still looks like he insulted the hulk's momma then forgot to run. The myriad of bruises mapping out his injuries have either disappeared or turned sickly shades of pale yellow and green amid fading purples. Scabs have crusted over his cuts and deep scratches. A dressing no longer covers the side of his face so an angry looking but neatly stitched scar is now visible from just beside his left eye, curling down over his high cheek bone and almost reaching his jaw. His leg, no... his residual limb is healing well according to the doctors and Jensen now has a private room in the surgical unit, having been demoted or maybe promoted, first from the SICU then the PCU. The drains, drips, and IV's are pretty much all gone as is the nasal cannula. He's still on potent painkillers and tends to tire quickly, but no matter how often he's asked, how it's phrased or who asks it, the answer to 'how are you feeling' is always _always_ 'fine'.  
  
Misha wasn't there the first time Jensen woke up alert enough to comprehend that his left leg now ended just below his knee. He'd postponed a meeting with the owner of a gallery due to show some of his works too many times already and, much to his frustration, either had to turn up or cancel the show. Financial practicality unfortunately had to win out. Afterwards, when he'd eventually arrived at the hospital, Jensen had been red-eyed and wrung out but 'fine'. Chris on the other hand had been a wreck. Nearly two weeks later Jensen is still fine. Even after an exhausting day of physio as well as visits from a social worker and a plastic surgeon, Jensen is _fine_. Misha hates that goddamn word.  
  
"Fine, huh?" Misha slumps back in the chair beside Jensen's bed after throwing him a paper bag containing a tube of Pringles, a bottle of Mountain Dew, and a Bear magazine; all essentials obviously. Pink sparkly balloons floating in the corner of the room, fresh flowers, and a giant teddy bear shaped card crammed on top of his bedside table along with a box of candy suggests that Sandy and Danneel popped in earlier. Whether they buy Jensen the sparkliest gifts because they think Jensen likes them or because it bugs the crap out of him Misha's not sure, but it's funny either way. Nodding towards the metal crutches leaning against the bedside table he says, "You managing to use them now?"  
  
"Bear! Seriously, Misha." Jensen holds up the offending magazine, which has an oil slicked, muscled and very hirsute gentleman wearing a teeny tiny black and white striped speedo posing on the front cover.  
  
"Not my thing to be honest, Jensen but I thought you might be into the hairy daddy type. You know I won't judge you if you are. Is Tom all rugged and hairy under those Armani silk suits? Would you like him to be?"  
  
"You are such an ass," Jensen says, blatantly ignoring the question as he stuffs the magazine under a pile of clothes in the cabinet beside his bed, but he's struggling to hold back a grin and that's exactly why Misha suffered through the embarrassment of buying the stupid magazine. "Yeah, I'm using the crutches alright, still get tired out too quick but the physio says I'll soon be running around on them no problem."  
  
"What about the social worker and plastic surgeon, were they any help?" Misha asks, snagging the tube of chips off Jensen's bed, opening them himself, and taking a handful before throwing them back to Jensen.  
  
"Hey dickhead, go home and eat your own snacks."  
  
"Didn't your mommy ever teach you to share," laughs Misha, immediately cursing himself when Jensen flinches at the mention of his mom. "Anyway," he says swiftly, "the social worker and plastic surgeon, any help?"  
  
"Not so much. The plastic surgeon says the scars'll are healing well - should all fade in time. Could probably do something with the one on my face," Jensen subconsciously drags his finger down his cheek, tracing over the angry red line. "But it's not like I'm gonna be modelling anyway with one leg so I doubt I'll bother."  
  
"Jensen," Misha starts but Jensen brushes him off.  
  
"It's fine. I'm fine. I sure don't need any help from the social workers and counsellors and every other do-gooder that’s so desperate to give me pep talks and advice.”  
  
“They’re here to help, Jen. Maybe if you let them-“  
  
“Christ Misha, I don’t need their kind of help. Don’t need some perfect ken doll look-alike telling me how lucky I am that my injuries weren’t more serious. Yeah, sure, I’m fucking ecstatic that I... fuck!” Jensen breaks off suddenly just as his voice rises. He picks up the bottle of soda and screws the lid off with a fierce twist that must hurt the skin on the palm of his hand. He takes a gulp, twists the lid back on again, and holds the bottle against his forehead.  
  
“Jensen,” Misha tries again, just to have Jensen cut him off.  
  
“Misha, it’s fine really. Look, it’s only my leg I've lost; the rest of me is still in perfect working order. I don’t need everyone fussing over me."  
  
Jensen 'stiff upper lip' Ackles everybody; surely an Englishman in a previous life. It’s frustrating as hell for Misha that for as quick as Jensen is to offer help to anyone that’s in trouble, he has a serious problem accepting it himself.  
  
"Jensen, it's okay to need help you know. Losing your leg... it's a huge life-changing experience to go through. It's bound to take time to come to terms with -"  
  
"Jesus, Misha enough." Jensen points the bottle of Mountain Dew in his hands in a faintly menacing manner at him. "I'm fine! How many times do I need to tell you? And also, I’m not a goddamn idiot. I'm sick of you and everyone else talking to me like I'm a child. I can take care of myself just fine; I've been doing it long enough."  
  
"You don't have to do everything on your own though." Misha counters ignoring the jab.  
  
"I want to." Jensen snaps back. Tiredness straining his patience and temper to breaking point quicker than ever.  
  
Misha backs off, changing subjects quick enough to suffer whiplash. "So, Jared says he's gonna ask Gen to marry him. What do you think his chances are? Think she's mad enough to get hitched to the hairy goof-ball?"  
  
Jensen closes his eyes for just a second, takes a breath. Opening his eyes, he forces a smile and grabs the subject change with both hands. "Really? That's cool. She's amazing; way out of his league obviously, but yeah they're great together."  
  
"You ever think about it?"  
  
"What proposing to Genevieve? Not my type Mish."  
  
"No, asshole. Getting married, committing to one person for the rest of your life. The whole big happy ever after thing."  
  
Misha thinks he can read all of Jensen's expressions by now, but the strange strained look that flits across his eyes is a new one that Misha can't quite decipher. "Yeah, I've thought about it, maybe one day. What about you? Not getting fed up of fucking a different twink every night of the week yet? You're not getting any younger after all; one of these days those blue eyes of yours are gonna stop working their magic and the pants'll stop falling off all those pretty boys."  
  
Misha shakes his head, "Don't you worry about me, Jenny. There's still plenty of twinkle left in these blue eyes and plenty of fresh faced guys out there desperate to experience some Misha magic."  
  
It's the kind of banter they engage in all the time, but somehow this time, something doesn't feel right and an uneasy silence settles over them. Misha is almost relieved when the door to Jensen's room opens and Tom walks in. Immaculately put together, suited and booted in perfectly co-ordinated designer labels as always. Asshole! Jensen might be a model but he still spends most of his time in jeans and a tee-shirt. Tom seems to live in designer clothes; he may as well have 'I'm a model, look at me' stamped on his forehead.  
  
Relieved Misha may be at the distraction of Tom's arrival, but he still can't bring himself to stay in the same room as the arrogant prick. Not without telling Jensen a few home truths about his boyfriend.  
  
"Hey Jensen," Tom says pressing a brief kiss to Jensen's cheek. The one without the scar running down it. "You're looking better, how you feeling?"  
  
"Fine thanks, Tom. You're looking good; you been working today?"  
  
Before Tom can answer, Misha stands up and excuses himself. It was hard enough to listen to Tom's long-winded stories when he still had a shred of respect for the self-absorbed idiot but now he'd rather stick his head in a vat of boiling oil than listen to a minute of his bullshit.  
  
"Jensen, I'm just gonna find something to eat okay; I haven't had a chance to grab anything today." Misha says completely ignoring Tom.  
  
"Well, if it stops you eating my Pringles," Jensen smiles while Tom frowns at the snacks scattered on the hospital bed with obvious distaste.  
  
"Do you want me to bring you anything back from Starbucks?"  
  
"A coffee would be good, you know what I like."  
  
"Are you allowed coffee?" Tom asks before Misha can say anything.  
  
"You want anything with it? A muffin or a sandwich maybe. The food in here looks about as appetizing as wallpaper paste." Misha carries on as if Tom hadn't spoken. Yeah okay, he's a petty jackass, sue him.  
  
Head turning between the pair of them, Jensen looks slightly baffled but eventually chooses to ignore Tom as well, "Sure a cookie or something would be great."  
  
"No problem," Misha says walking out of the room without even looking in Tom's direction.  
  
There's a Starbucks a ten minute walk away from the hospital which Misha can find on auto pilot by now. He takes his sweet time, finds a free battered leather chair to sit in and has an overpriced but delicious sandwich and the biggest cup of tea he can buy. He flirts with Mason, the cute barista behind the counter, but talks himself out of asking if he's due a break soon. He might have to visit this Starbucks a few more times yet and you don't screw around where you eat. It get's real awkward real fast.  
  
He manages to kill nearly an hour before he walks back through Jensen's door with a skinny latte and pink iced gingerbread cookie in his hands.  
  
"Wow, Tom you've gotten better looking since I last saw you." He says to the tall dark haired visitor sitting beside Jensen's bed.  
  
"Well shit - I can die happy now I know you think I'm good looking. Do I need to warn Gen that you're after my ass?" Jared replies dryly.  
  
Squeezing the coffee cup and paper bag containing the cookie on the bedside table, Misha redirects his gaze to Jensen who appears paler and more drawn than he was an hour ago. "Where's Tom? He didn't hang around for long."  
  
"Nah, he had to leave. Had a meeting to get to."  
  
"Sure, a meeting." Misha replies skeptically. "How many meetings has he had the past few weeks."  
  
"Give it a rest, Misha," Jensen sounds tired and hasn't so much as sniffed the coffee beside his bed, which might be a sign of a looming apocalypse.  
  
"He's right though, Jen. We've not exactly been tripping over him at visiting times. He's hardly the most attentive boyfriend in the world is he?" Jared says. He usually avoids joining in the Tom bashing for Jensen's sake but it seems his patience for Tom's antics has worn thin.  
  
"Guys, I'm really fucking tired. Could you both just leave it alone," Jensen snaps before sinking his head back against the pillows behind him, folding his arms across himself like a barricade, and closing his eyes.  
  
Jared and Misha share an uncomfortable look, not sure what to do next. "You want us to go, Jen?" Jared eventually asks, voice soft and quiet just in-case Jensen has actually drifted off to sleep and isn't simply ignoring them.  
  
It takes Jensen so long to answer that Misha is already on the verge of leaving.  
  
"No, sorry. Don't go. I'm sorry."  
  
"Jensen, you know we're just worried about you. Tom he's..." Misha tries to think of a subtle way of saying your boyfriend is a narcissistic self-centred asshole but comes up blank. He looks to Jared for assistance but if his look of wide-eyed panic is anything to go by, he's not going to be any help.  
  
"Look Tom and I, we're - " Jensen starts, only to be interrupted by a very matronly looking nurse with rosy apple cheeks, bright red hair piled high in something that resembles a bird's nest, and a bust that Dolly Parton would envy, bustling into his room. She shatters the uncomfortable atmosphere like a sledgehammer. She's kind of like a rocket fuelled steamroller with a decidedly English accent.  
  
"Good Afternoon, Mr. Ackles. How are we today? You're looking a bit peaky, I must say. I hope these handsome friends of yours aren't tiring you out, although I'm sure these lovely boys know better than that by now. Did you overdo your physiotherapy today perhaps? I hope you haven't been pushing yourself too hard, you do have to give your body a chance to heal. I know you're frustrated by your slow progress, but believe me Mr. Ackles you are coming along wonderfully. Have you had a chance to look at the pamphlets about rehabilitation centers that I left you? I know you aren't too keen on the idea, but a lot of patients in your position find them tremendously helpful and really, we'll have to decide quickly; you're due to be discharged in a few days and these things take time to arrange."  
  
Misha and Jared stare at her in open-mouthed wonder. Misha is positive she said all that without taking a breath. There is impressive lung capacity hidden under that ample bosom apparently.  
  
Jensen, who's seemingly run into this force of nature before, looks blandly unimpressed, a bit pissed even. "No. I'm not going to rehab, I just want to go home. We've been through this."  
  
Unperturbed by Jensen's sulky attitude the nurse takes a deep breath, apparently winding up for another onslaught. "If you would just look at the information Mr. Ackles, I'm sure-"  
  
"No, and please, please just call me Jensen." Jensen sounds exhausted all of a sudden and nurse 'Gladys' - according to the statuary hospital name badge - softens her battle-axe approach.  
  
"Jensen, love. I'm not trying to bully you here. I only want you to consider all the options open to you. The transition from hospital to home is a big one, especially for someone in your situation. It's not too long since you were in intensive care; it's going to be a while before you regain your strength, plus there are things you have to relearn how to do. I think even a couple of weeks in a rehabilitation unit could help you tremendously in the short and long term. There are trained professionals there to help you regain your independence; a prosthetist, occupational therapist, physiotherapist plus medical staff to ensure your pain relief is effectively managed."  
  
Just when Misha thinks Gladys might be on to a winning strategy, she blows it all with the next sentence.  
  
"And of course they always have an on-staff clinical psychiatrist or psychologist to help you come to terms with- "  
  
"Jesus Christ! No, okay? I'm fine. I'm going home. My own home with my own bed where I can get some fucking peace and quiet and you people can’t bug the shit out of me every five minutes."  
  
Nurse Gladys purses her lips and crosses her arms under her substantial bosom; a look of stony disappointment on her face at Jensen’s uncharacteristic outburst.  
  
"Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean...shit, sorry! I'm sorry ma‘am."  
  
Jensen has more color in his cheeks than he's had all day and one glance at Jared tells Misha that he's trying as hard as Misha is to hold back a snigger. Swallowing down the urge to laugh at his friend's embarrassment, Misha decides to be a good guy and deflect the nurse's attention.  
  
"Jensen's gonna be released soon?  
  
"Yes, he is, he didn't tell you?" Jensen groans and attempts to bury his head back into his pillows.  
  
Misha tries very hard not to flinch as her imposing glare focuses with laser intensity on him while she continues, "He's healing very well and the doctor is happy to discharge him in the next couple of days. Whatever Jensen decides to do, especially if he's determined to go straight home, he is going to need a lot of help and support from his friends and family."  
  
"Yep sure, no worries. We're gonna make sure Jensen gets all the help he can handle." Jared chimes in.  
  
"See," Jensen says, like a petulant three your old. "I told you already; I'm not gonna be on my own. I live with my boyfriend and I'm gonna have loads of people helping me. I'll do all my rehab as an outpatient. It's all good."  
  
Nurse Gladys appears unimpressed. "Hmmph, well it's your decision, Jensen. Now, it’s time to change your dressings. Would you gentlemen mind leaving us for a few minutes?"  
  
"No problem," Jared jumps up from his chair. "Jensen, you look wiped out anyway man. We'll come back tomorrow and see how you're doing. Danneel and James said they might pop in and Chris is gonna drop by later before his gig, okay?"  
  
"Is there anything you need, Jen?" Misha asks on his way out the door, but Jensen just shakes his head. Misha falters when he notices the deep lines of pain spreading across Jensen's forehead but Jared is on his heels and shoving him out the door before he can decide what to do about it.  
  
"You think he's okay?" He asks Jared as they're walking through the twisting corridors towards the exit.  
  
There's a pause before Jared answers with a plain and honest, "No."  
  
No, Jensen is not okay. He's not even in the ballpark.  
  


 

  
  
News of Jensen's release from the hospital arrives via an unlikely source.  
  
Misha's just wandered into his kitchen, the floor tiles cool under his bare feet, absently wiping the paint coating his fingers onto the thigh of his jeans when he registers the insistent buzzing of his doorbell. For the first time in weeks, he's spent the morning working in his studio, ideas and images flowing like magic from his head to the canvas. He's just ventured out to grab a chilled bottle of water and bit of fruit before he completely forgets to eat. The doorbell could have been buzzing for a while and he wouldn't have noticed, head buried deep in interlacing crimson flames and dark shadows.  
  
Despite what everyone seems to think, Misha works hard. He's the first to admit that he plays hard too, but he couldn't afford to do that if he didn't put the long hours of blood, sweat, and tears - more sweat than the other two but they have been known to happen - into his art. And that's the easy part. He has to negotiate, badger and occasionally down-right beg to display his paintings where he wants, when he wants. He has to promote his work - promote himself. He has to network and glad-hand as often as any suit and be able to balance his accounts at the end of the day. The glamorous life of an artist; not often that glamorous. Ridiculous amounts of hard work and a huge chunk of luck at just the right time have brought him more success than most of his peers though, so he's not complaining. Too much. Often.  
  
Because for a change the paint is flowing on to his canvas with fluid ease, Misha is not in the mood to taunt salesmen or whack-jobs desperate to introduce him to their brand of God. He ignores the doorbell for a few more minutes before finally relenting, figuring that someone with that much persistence deserves at least thirty seconds of his time. Even if it is just to tell them to get lost.  
  
Turns out 'get lost' is the mildest thing that springs to mind. He opens the door to find Tom Welling loitering on his doorstep. Before a single word can make it from his brain to his mouth, Tom beats him to it.  
  
"Just give me a minute to explain before you slam the door in my face," he says as the door hurtles towards him.  
  
Undeterred, his shout is muffled through solid wood. "It's about Jensen and it's important."  
  
Misha takes a moment to collect himself before opening the door again.  
  
"What is it?" Misha isn't messing around.  
  
"Can I come in? I don't really want to do this out here."  
  
"Two minutes," is all Misha says. He stalks away, leaving Tom to close the door behind himself and follow him through to his living room.  
  
Misha doesn't sit down and he doesn't offer Tom a seat.  
  
"Thanks," Tom says, hovering in the doorway.  
  
"What's so important?" Misha asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from punching Tom should the urge arise. He needs his hands uninjured, they're pretty much his livelihood.  
  
"Jensen called to say the hospital is releasing him this afternoon."  
  
"Great, what's the problem?"  
  
Tom, who is usually the epitome of cool and aloof, shifts nervously from foot to foot. "Look, just hear me out, okay? I need you to listen to me the whole way through; that's why I came to you and not Jared or Christian. I need someone that thinks before they punch."  
  
"You're giving me far too much credit."  
  
"Quite possibly, but this is for Jensen's benefit so I'm going to risk it."  
  
Misha acknowledges that with a silent terse nod.  
  
"Okay, Jensen and I aren't in a relationship anymore, we -"  
  
"You son of a bitch! You dumped him because he lost his leg. You worthless piece of shit!" Misha is in Tom's space, shoving him hard in the chest, a red mist descending in front of his eyes and good god, that fucker's chest must be carved out of granite.  
  
Tom shoves him back and holds his hands up in between them, trying to hold Misha and all his righteous fury at arm’s length.  
  
"Just listen. We were never that serious and we haven't been in a relationship for nearly six months."  
  
"No that's ridiculous. Jensen only moved in with you four months ago."  
  
"He moved in with me because his lease had run out and he didn't have time to find a new place. We're still friends. We're in the same business. I had a spare room. It was convenient."  
  
"Friends?" Misha's voice drips with cynicism.  
  
"Yes friends. Maybe friends with benefits occasionally ‘cause you know we're both hot as sin and sometimes -”  
  
"Yeah, okay. I get the picture; I don't need the sordid details. Why wouldn't Jensen just have told us? Why the hell didn't he move in with me or Jay or Chris?" Tom must've smoked some good weed Misha thinks, because this makes as much sense as a Chris suddenly donning a tutu and belting out opera.  
  
"I guess you'll have to ask him that. Although, I'm pretty sure the fact that Jared moved in with Genevieve and Chris shares an apartment with half his band would rule out moving in with them."  
  
"What about me?" Misha didn't mean that to sound as pathetic as he suspects it did.  
  
Tom snorts, which is not attractive, especially on him. "I don't know, Misha. Maybe he didn't want to share a home with the never ending conveyor belt of twinks you fuck."  
  
"I don't actually bring any of them home."  
  
"Wow, and I'm the dick."  
  
Misha shrugs off the snide comment. It's hardly undeserved. "Jensen has other friends he could stay with."  
  
"Yeah, and I'm one of them. Some people can actually be friends with someone they've slept with, Misha. I know that's a concept that's hard for you to grasp."  
  
Misha doesn't know how he ended up on the defensive here but he doesn't much like it. "Okay, fine. You're telling me this now because?"  
  
"Because you need to know that if I was in a serious relationship with Jensen, I wouldn't be doing this."  
  
"Tom, enough of the cryptic bullshit. Doing what?"  
  
"Leaving. I've got a job in the Bahamas for a few weeks. It's a calendar shoot that I've had booked for months then I've got work lined up with a designer in Europe. Jensen knew all about it, he always knew I wasn't going to be around when he came out of the hospital."  
  
Misha must be missing something huge here, because none of this makes a lick of sense. "Why would he say you were then? He's not going to rehab because you're gonna be there to look after him, help him out."  
  
"Because the stupid ass doesn't want to go to rehab and he guessed the hospital wouldn't discharge him if they knew he was going home to an empty house."  
  
"Tom just... let me just get this straight. Jensen is planning to stay on his own in your house instead of just asking one of us for help. Why would he... what is he thinking? What happens if he falls and hurts himself, or if he gets sick? How is he planning to get to all the outpatient appointments? Seriously, what the hell is he thinking? Why would you let him do that? Go along with him without saying anything?"  
  
"You think I haven't tried talking him round? You really think I said, that's a fantastic idea Jensen; I'm sure you'll manage just fine on your own. Fucking idiot! Of course, I tried to talk him out of it but have you met Jensen? Stubborn doesn't even begin to cover it."  
  
And yeah, Tom might have a point there. Trying to persuade Jensen to change his mind is like trying to persuade the sun not to set.  
  
"Okay, okay. So when are you leaving?"  
  
Tom looks shifty again. "Now. My cab to the airport's waiting right outside. Just as well the agency’s paying the cab-fare."  
  
Misha might want to poke him in the eye for that comment, but lets it go. "Does Jensen know you're leaving now?"  
  
"No. He thinks I'm coming by the hospital first to pick him up. They won't let him leave on his own."  
  
"But he knows you're leaving today?"  
  
"Yes," Tom confirms. "He's well aware. That's the reason he's campaigned so hard to go home today. I think he threatened to sign himself out if they didn't discharge him."  
  
"Fuck!" Misha says wholeheartedly. "I'm gonna kick his ass, the stupid stubborn son of a bitch. Did he not think we'd come to visit, maybe notice that you weren't around. What the hell is he thinking?"  
  
"Misha, he isn't thinking and if he is, I sure don't think it's anything good."  
  
"What?" Misha barks. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Nothing," Tom brushes it off. "Nothing, ignore me."  
  
Usually Misha would do that happily but - "No. What is it? What's he thinking?"  
  
Tom shakes his head, hesitates before speaking again. "I'm not a mind reader Misha, you know him better than me so I'm probably just reading too much into things but..."  
  
"But what?" Misha prompts when he hesitates again.  
  
"But I just think it's a bit weird that he's so desperate to be on his own. He knows any of his friends would help him out. He must know you'll all check up on him, he knows you all hate me. Don't trust me enough to look after a pet fish never mind their best friend."  
  
Misha chokes on an embarrassed cough but doesn't contradict him.  
  
"So," Tom continues. "What's he planning to do before any of you realize he's lied, he's on his own, and more than likely not going to rehab."  
  
Misha stares blankly at Tom.  
  
"Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be the brainiac and I was the dumb model. He's gonna be on his own. Depressed. With a shit load of prescription pain meds."  
  
"No," now Misha is shaking his head, unbelieving. "You think he'd... no. Jensen would never... he's fine... he's always fine. He wouldn't - " But no matter how loudly he denies it, Misha knows that Tom's right. It makes sense. "Shit!" Misha steps back, sinks into an armchair and waits for his stomach to untwist.  
  
Tom awkwardly pats him on the back, the same cautious way someone would pat a dog with a track record of biting. "I hate to do this Misha, but I'm going to have to go. I need to check in for my flight soon. Look out for Jensen, okay? He's an idiot but he's a good guy. I don't want anything to happen to him. I told you all this so you'd take care of him. Tell him... tell him, I hope he forgives me for bailing and for telling you everything, but I'm not sorry and I'd rather he was mad at me than doing something stupid."  
  
"Tom," Misha says to his departing back. "Thanks for... just thanks."  
  
"Sure," Tom says on his way out the door leaving Misha with his head in his hands and a horrific sinking feeling in his gut.  
  
  
  
The expression that clouds Jensen's face when Misha, Chris, and Jared all walk in through the door of his hospital room instead of his non-boyfriend is cold enough to freeze Misha in his tracks.  
  
"Where's Tom?" Jensen's voice is clipped, icy, not even pretending to be close to his usual easy tone.  
  
"Probably on a flight to the Bahamas about now, I imagine." Jared answers, calm and collected just like they'd all agreed was the best approach.  
  
"Jesus son, what the hell were you thinking?" Chris sticking to that agreement was a gamble with the odds stacked heavily against it.  
  
"I was thinking that I'm a grown man capable of making my own decisions."  
  
"Well excuse us if we disagree with you, you lying selfish son of a bitch." Misha and Jared share an uneasy look over Chris's head. Jensen's cousin is understandably steaming mad, but yelling right now isn't helpful.  
  
"Jensen, we don't understand what you're doing." Jared tries the calm approach again. "We get that you don't want to go into a rehab center but how did you think you were gonna manage on your own."  
  
Jensen looks away at the same time as saying, "I'll manage fine. Despite what y'all think, I've only lost my leg not my marbles. I know what I'm doing." How he's managed to lie to them about him and Tom all this time Misha has no idea, because he's a god awful liar.  
  
Misha kneels down in front of Jensen's wheelchair. He’s sitting with his bag beside him, already packed, obviously in hope of a speedy escape. "Jensen, just let us help. You can't go home on your own. You know that."  
  
"I don't need help," Jensen hisses through gritted teeth. "I need to be left on my own for more than five fucking minutes."  
  
"Left on your own to do what exactly?" Chris asks from behind Misha. "You needing some peace to jerk off, Jenny? Or to take a big handful of those pain meds you got stashed in your bag?"  
  
Jensen pales, bites his lip, looks at the floor. Denies nothing.  
  
"No," Misha's shocked voice is so quiet it's almost a whisper. "Why would you do that Jensen? I don't understand. After everything, after you fought so hard to get this far. Why would you - "  
  
"Why not?" The sudden vehemence in Jensen's tone is starling as his head whips round to face his friends. "What else am I gonna do, huh? My leg hurts all the fucking time. It's like someone's constantly ramming white hot needles into it and it's not even fucking there anymore. I've got no job, no home, no family, no boyfriend, and no hope of finding one. Who the fuck is gonna want an ugly one legged freak covered in scars. What about you, Misha?" Jensen holds his arms out wide displaying himself, "This package something you look for when you're out picking up your next fuck?"  
  
Cold sweat crawls down Misha's neck. That's not what...Jensen can't really be thinking this way can he? That's just...it's just wrong. "Jensen - " There are so many things he needs to say but every word he knows that might help is swimming uselessly inside his head.  
  
Jared, having the same problem stutters out a broken 'Jensen' before tapering off. Chris, fury still seeping from his pores, doesn't suffer similarly.  
  
"Well boo fucking hoo! Poor Jensen Ackles. Lost half a leg and turns into a weeping drama queen. Just 'cause you're not always gonna be the prettiest princess in the room anymore you think that's a good reason to top yourself? You cowardly fucking asshole!"  
  
"Christian!"  
  
"No, Jared. I'm not gonna stand round listening to this bullshit. You think you're bad off, really? You don't have a job or a house? No maybe you don't, but you have a shit load of money in your bank account and a whole ton more heading your way once your lawyers sue the ass off the idiot that plowed into you. You've lost half a leg? You think you're the only one that ever happened to? At least you still have the other one. At least you have enough money to buy the best prosthesis out there, at least you can afford the physio to get your lazy ass up and using it. You're in pain. Have you told anyone? Any of the doctors and nurses that've been trying their best to help you for the past few weeks? Or have you told them all that you're _fine_." Chris spits the word like a curse. "You've no family? What am I? Chopped fucking liver! What about my mom, my sister! Jesus boy, what about Jared and Misha, don't they count for anything? If you weren't in that wheelchair I'd goddamn lay you out."  
  
Tears spring to Jensen's eyes, the dewy green shockingly bright against his pallid complexion. "Fuck you," he bites out in Chris's direction. "I'm sorry I’m such a fucking disappointment to you. That I don't live up to your high standards."  
  
"I don't care what standards you live up to, you moron, as long as you fucking live. Do you have any idea, the hell we went through while you were unconscious? We didn't know if you were even gonna make it. Do you understand that? You nearly died! Your heart stopped. You get that? Your heart fucking stopped!! Hours we had to wait to hear if you were still alive. All night Jensen, we waited all night for you, not knowing if you even had a chance. Jared and Gen still had half your damn blood soaked through their clothes. It was the longest fucking night of our lives." Chris's face is nearly purple, ugly veins popping out in his temple and at the mention of the night of Jensen's accident, the memories come flooding back to Misha too; the endless waiting, already feeling halfway dead himself at the thought of Jensen not making it. Yeah, Chris has every right to be furious.  
  
"Then I had to decide whether to let them cut off your leg or give the infection that was eating away at you the chance to kill you."Chris roughly wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, hurt and fear visibly leaking through his anger.  
  
"Did you want me to let you die, Jensen? Is your life really that bad that I should have just saved you the trouble of going behind our backs, lying to us? Should I have said fuck it, just let the infection have at him. It's not like anyone gives a shit about him! Well I'm fucking sorry I couldn't do that for you."  
  
"Chris!" Tears stream down Jensen's face. "I'm sorry... no, s'not your fault. I'm just... tired and scared and so goddamn sick of being in pain all the time. I don't... I can't... I don't know anymore and I... I just want to not feel... to not feel..."  
  
Chris shoves Misha out of the way and hauls his younger cousin into his arms, holding him steady, anchoring him as he falls apart. Misha stands up, backs out of the way, feels Jared's hand clasping his shoulder. Tears streak down all their faces, hearts aching as they watch Jensen come undone. Finally acknowledging he's nowhere near fine.  
  
  
The medical staff are amazing. Discreetly alerted by Misha, Nurse Gladys peers around the door, takes one quick look at Jensen, and magically makes his signed discharge paperwork disappear. It's another seventy-two hours before 'Jensen leaves hospital - take two' transpires. He isn't suddenly miraculously well-adjusted. He's still refusing to go to a rehabilitation center. He's still moody, veering from one emotion to another to a complete lack of emotion quick enough to keep them all off-balance. He has however talked to the hospital's psychiatrist and a peer support visitor from the amputee coalition and he has an appointment set up to talk to a psychiatrist who apparently specialises in limb loss and PTSD cases.  
  
He has also, thank God, finally manned up and admitted to the doctors how much pain he's really in. After sitting through a well deserved lecture about the perils and stupidity of suffering in silence, they change up his meds enough to make him, if not completely pain-free, as near as possible most of the time. There's appointments organized for a prosthetist and a physical therapist. He has the number of a pain management physician and an occupational therapist is coming out to visit him at home. Well... Misha's home. That's the major change. This time when Jensen leaves hospital, he's going home with Misha.  
  
Living home-alone in Tom's house was never going to happen. Not over the combined weight of Chris, Jared and Misha's dead bodies. Chris lives in a second story apartment with two other guys and has a tour lined up in a few weeks, so as much as he wants to look out for Jensen, this time he's forced to admit he can't. Jared and Genevieve have only lived together for the past year and despite Jared's best persuasive efforts, sad puppy-dog eyes, and even Genevieve's tempting offer of pancakes every morning for breakfast, Jensen refuses to move into their oasis of sickeningly sweet nearly married bliss. 'The pain meds make me nauseous enough' were his final charming words on the matter. Staying with Misha therefore is the obvious option. And his house couldn't be more ideal. It's not exactly a palace. While he's painstakingly converted the huge north facing master bedroom into his perfect art studio, he hasn't quite gotten round to remodelling his kitchen or the disturbing eighties avocado-green bathroom yet and the backyard does vaguely resemble a jungle, however what he does have is an empty spare room and most importantly his house is all on one easily accessible level. It's perfect.  
  
Strangely, the idea of sharing his home, his private space, isn't sending Misha into a crushing panic attack like it once would have. Like it would have just a few weeks ago.It's funny - though it's really not - how much Misha's changed, how much his outlook has changed since he thought Jensen might die. It's like his world has shifted under his feet. Like he's viewing everything from a slightly different angle. The solitude of his empty house feels less like a sanctuary every day and more like self-imposed isolation.  
  
The more he considers it, the more the idea of Jensen living with him appeals. Selfishly, it's as much for Misha's benefit as Jensen's; knowing that Jensen is going to be safely living under his roof settles some of the dreadful panic that Misha's not been able to shake since talking to Tom.  
  
Jensen may be in a more positive frame of mind but the idea that his friend thought for even one second about suicide terrifies Misha. Sometimes he feels like he failed Jensen, that he should have seen how low he'd spiralled. If Tom, who they've all accused of being nothing more than a self-centred air-head, saw where Jensen was heading why didn't Misha? Sometimes though, he just feels incredibly angry. How could Jensen do that, just leave them without even giving them a chance to help. Selfish... anyway, like it or not, Jensen is moving in with Misha and he better prepare himself for some serious hovering because as far as Misha is concerned, Jensen lost any right to complain about over-protective interfering friends when the idea of leaving them forever entered his head.  
  
  
  


**Chapter Three**  
  
A screeching car horn blares rudely in the next street prompting next door's yappy little mutt to erupt in a barking frenzy and Misha's heart-rate to thunder up to a near fatal level. God-damn but he's turning into a basket-case. He's exhausted. His body aches deep down into the marrow of his bones. But can he sleep? Can he hell.  
  
Misha's been wound tighter than a nun's panty elastic all day. Thanks to Jensen. No, that's not fair - it's not his fault. It's just that the hospital finally released him today and while, yes - that's brilliant, awesome even, it's also fucking terrifying. To suddenly be sharing his house with someone - someone that he inexplicably feels an overwhelming sense of responsibility for - is a whole new experience for Misha. One that's left him feeling as though he's balancing on a high-wire over a safety net overflowing with shards of broken glass.  
  
Jensen would undoubtedly blow a gasket if he thought Misha felt at all responsible for him. He's a grown man after all. An incredibly capable and self-reliant grown man. But - and it's a big ass but - Jensen is one of his best friends and he's dealing, or more worryingly not dealing, with life-altering injuries. Misha had thought that having Jensen in his house would alleviate some of the worry gnawing away at him ever since Jensen's break down in the hospital but that worry has simply morphed into a heavy weight of responsibility that's taken up residence like a lead ball in Misha's gut.  
  
Right at this minute Jensen (unlike Misha) is presumably sound asleep in Misha's spare room, well... it was a spare room a few days ago. Now, it's Jensen's room. Thanks to a great deal of help from their friends, Misha's sadly neglected empty bedroom has had a makeover; a fresh coat of cream paint on the walls, several layers of white paint on the ceiling in an attempt to cover the weird old patch of damp that resembled a squashed frog, a new deep-piled rug on the hardwood floor and even a pair of bright yellow curtains with daisies splashed across them framing the window. Jensen hated the cheerful curtains the second he spotted them which is probably the only reason that Danneel bought them in the first place. Jensen’s friends have a weird habit of demonstrating how much they love him by annoying the shit out of him.  
  
Jared, Chris and Steve moved Jensen's belongings in yesterday morning. There wasn't that much; his bed, clothes and a dozen boxes of books, dvd's and personal stuff. They didn't quite get around to unpacking all the boxes, several are still lying on the floor of Jensen's room but shit, Misha still has unpacked boxes of his own kicking about somewhere and he's lived here for over a year. Actually, now that Jensen’s moved in Misha might just make the effort to unpack them. The ones marked cookware at least. Jensen probably isn't going to want to subsist on cereal, microwave dinners, and tinned soup, although after all that bland salt-free, sugar-free, taste-free hospital food, Lucky Charms might be a luxury.  
  
Folded up in the hallway is a wheelchair on loan from the hospital, too wide to be of much use in the house. Misha had never considered the narrow doorways of his less than modern house to be a problem before, never considered them at all actually. Fortunately, Jensen is pretty adept at getting around on his crutches now.  
  
Since he'd arrived that afternoon Jensen had seemed to be in good spirits; no doubt, the relief of finally escaping the hospital had boosted his delicate mood. He'd been tired, but that's to be expected. It's not that long since he was fighting for his life after all; it's going to take some time for him to regain his strength. He'd spent most of the day lying on the couch watching a marathon session of NCIS on the television and suffering Misha's fussing with a surprising amount of patience. After nodding off in front of the television shortly after dinner, with some gentle prodding from Misha, he'd turned in for the night. Brushing off Misha's offers of assistance, he'd navigated the journey to the bathroom perfectly well on his own, locking the door resolutely behind him. Misha had not sat outside the door on the off-chance that Jensen might need him. He'd wanted to but he hadn't. He hadn't ventured outwith spitting distance though.  
  
A glower from Jensen when he reappeared from the bathroom had Misha beating a hasty retreat, biting his tongue, and instantly swallowing any offer of assistance. Instead he'd walked away and given Jensen plenty of time to get himself into bed before bringing him a bottle of water along with his morning and evening dose of painkillers. Jensen had barely grunted in response, every sign of his previous good mood evaporating. Maybe the reminder that he wasn't yet trusted with his own pain-meds hadn't helped there.  
  
Misha had retreated to the living room. Collapsing onto the sofa like his strings had been cut, he'd settled back to watch some mind-numbing reality-show crap. Ten minutes later he'd switched off the television after deciding he might not hear if Jensen needed something. He'd tried to read but that hadn't gone any better and he'd thrown the book down in disgust after reading the same page four times. He was so focussed on listening out for the tiniest squeak from Jensen's direction that he had less concentration than a concussed goldfish. He'd grabbed his sketch pad and pencils but once the floor at his feet was littered with balled up half-finished sketches he'd given up and simply gone to bed. Where despite feeling utterly wiped out, he'd tossed and turned and failed spectacularly to fall asleep.  
  
Sitting up, Misha grabs his pillow, turns it over to the hopefully slightly cooler side, punches it a time or two for good measure then settles back down, curling onto his side. This is fucking ridiculous; he's going to end up a nervous wreck if he carries on like this. Next door's irritating little hell-hound finally shuts up, Misha takes a handful of deep calming breaths and tries to will himself to sleep.  
  
He must eventually drift off because he's woken heart-stoppingly abruptly by the sound of crashing and the heavy thud of a body colliding with the floor. He's out of bed and running through Jensen's bedroom door, thumping on the light switch before his eyes have barely opened. Jensen is lying flat on the floor along with his crutches, the broken bedside lamp, and a plastic bottle of water.  
  
"What the hell - are you okay?" Misha skids to his side, picks up the crutches, leans them back against the wall and shoves everything else aside.  
  
Jensen is lying awkwardly, face down, arms splayed out. He carefully rolls onto his side before shuffling up onto his butt, leaning back against the side of the bed. His face flushed beet red.  
  
Misha examines the compression bandages covering Jensen's stump, searching for any sign of blood, terrified the recently healed wound might have split open. It could set Jensen's recovery back weeks if it has. Misha's internally debating if he needs to call an ambulance or if they can make it to the hospital themselves without causing Jensen any further damage when Jensen speaks.  
  
"Fuck, I'm fine. I'm fine Misha. Just winded myself. My... my leg's fine."  
  
"You sure?" Misha's doubtful, it sure as hell sounded painful and he's not taking any risks with Jensen's health.  
  
Jensen scowls, "I'm not an idiot. If I was hurt I'd tell you. I don't _want_ to cause myself any more damage you know; I’d quite like to keep the bit of leg I've got left."  
  
Misha cringes at the tone, doesn't press the matter. "You want me to help you up?"  
  
"No, just let me catch my breath for a minute," Jensen says shaking his head and cautiously stretching out his arm. There's a dark bruise already showing above his elbow where he apparently hit the floor first.  
  
"What happened? Did you fall out of bed?"  
  
"Well, no shit, Sherlock."  
  
That was deserved but it's six in the morning and he's had about three hours sleep, give him a break. "I mean how did you fall out of bed? Were you asleep? Did the crutches slip, what happened?"  
  
Jensen's face flames an even deeper shade and he nibbles his top front teeth on his bottom lip for so long Misha doesn't think he's going to answer. "I forgot."  
  
"You what?" Misha asks, sounding as slow-witted as he feels.  
  
"I forgot! I woke up, needed a piss, rolled out of bed, and fucking forgot that I didn't have my leg." Jensen slams his head back against the side of the bed and slaps his hand across his eyes.  
  
"Oh, Jen."  
  
"Don't! Don't fucking pity me." Jensen bites back in a tight strangled voice.  
  
Misha doesn't know whether he wants to slap Jensen or hug him. "It's not pity you asshole. It's a bit of fucking sympathy. You too proud to accept that now too? Help, sympathy, anyone giving a shit, anything else to add to the list of things you don't want?"  
  
"Fuck you." Jensen spits. Hands still covering his eyes, head thrown back, facing the ceiling rather than Misha.  
  
Rather than continuing their witty repartee Misha sits back on his ass, crosses his arms and legs like a kindergarten kid, and waits Jensen out. For all of a minute and a half; he's renowned for his art not his patience. "Jensen?"  
  
Jensen scrubs his palms over his eyes before finally removing his hands and looking at Misha. His eyes are bloodshot and watery. He looks like shit. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be an asshole."  
  
"You don't need to try Jen; it comes so naturally to you."  
  
Jensen snorts a surprised laugh, "Nice bedside manner, dude."  
  
"Do I look like I'm wearing a nurse's uniform to you?" Misha looks down at his ancient college tee-shirt and jersey boxers.  
  
"Well, nurse Gladys had a bigger rack but you've probably got better legs for it."  
  
"I'm pretty sure all the nurses wear pants dude, and I'm sure as hell the male ones do."  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure you know all about what the male nurses wear. Probably what they wear underneath their scrubs too."  
  
Jensen manages a half-hearted lecherous smirk that settles some of Misha's lingering anxiety. "You want to get your ass up off the floor yet or we camping here all night?"  
  
"Well, if I don't get up soon I'm gonna piss myself so unless you want to clean that up too, Florence I don't think I've much choice."  
  
Misha screws his nose up at the thought. "I'm not into that kind of thing, Jen; let's get moving. You need to lean on me or - "  
  
"Yeah, I think so." It's not easy. Misha is nervous and unsure of how much support Jensen needs and Jensen is trying to somehow push himself up and balance without leaning too heavily on him. It takes longer than it should to plant Jensen's ass on the edge of the bed and it leaves them both strangely out of breath.  
  
"Well, that went well!" Misha huffs.  
  
"Oh yeah, just awesome. Pass me my crutches so I can get to the bathroom before I wet myself."  
  
Misha looks doubtfully at the new purpling bruise appearing down the outside of Jensen's arm, the way he's flexing his hand experimentally. "You gonna manage on them?"  
  
The dark look he receives for his concern could kill a lesser being. Misha silently decides not to let Jensen near small children or defenceless animals until his mood improves. Miming zipping his lips closed, he silently passes the crutches to Jensen. Who in turn tries to hide the wince of pain that crosses his face when he pushes himself up on them.  
  
"You okay there?"  
  
"Peachy," Jensen says through gritted teeth as he slowly picks his way around the rug in the middle of the floor and limps across the hall to the bathroom. He still leaves Misha standing outside, but this time he doesn't lock the door behind him. Whether that is reassuring or worrying, Misha is undecided. He leans back on the wall beside the bathroom door and patiently waits for Jensen to reappear so he can continue the stalking vibe he's got going on and follow him back to the bedroom.  
  
"Are you still standing out there, stalker?"  
  
Misha smiles. "Why, you need me to shake it for you?"  
  
He thinks he hears "dick", mumbled from the other side of the door but he can't be sure. "You think you could maybe help me out seeing as how you're just hanging around out there like a hooker on Hollywood boulevard."  
  
Misha is too busy thinking of a snappy comeback to register that Jensen actually asked for help so it takes a moment for him to reply. "So what, you want me to come in there?"  
  
"Well, you're not gonna be able to help me from out there are you, Einstein? You know what, it doesn't matter. I'll- "  
  
"No! No it's fine." Misha barrels through the door accidentally slamming it open against the wall in his haste to get there before Jensen changes his mind. "What do you need?"  
  
Jensen is perched on the toilet seat, crutches clasped loosely in one hand and a nervous look on his face that doesn't sit well with Misha. "Spit it out, Jennybean. How can I help?"  
  
"I need... I want to have a shower but I can't... you know with these... and the floor tiles are smooth and not really great under the crutches and there are no rails or chair in the shower so... "  
  
Oh! Oh shit, why didn't Misha think about that earlier? "The occupational therapist ordered a shower chair, she said that it might take a few days though and there's someone coming to fix grab bars but not until Thursday." He knew all that, he just didn't think about what the hell Jensen was supposed to do in the meantime.  
  
"Yeah? Great, that's great. It's just that I'm really... and I didn't... no, it doesn't matter. I'll manage. It's fine."  
  
Misha is a clueless idiot sometimes. Of course Jensen needs a shower. He's bound to want to wash the stink of the hospital off of him, never mind the fact that it's been hot as hell all day and he's just been lying flat out on Misha's floor. "You want me to help you shower? I don't mind."  
  
"No, no, it's alright. I don't want to be a pain."  
  
"Come on Jen, I don't mind. I'd rather help you have a shower than live with you stinking like a pair of Jared's gym socks."  
  
"Hey dude, too far, too far. I have feelings you know."  
  
"Sorry, princess. Come on let's figure out how to do this."  
  
Misha switches on the shower, adjusts the temperature from ball-shrinking cold to steamy hot because not everyone enjoys cold showers first thing in the morning, yanks his t-shirt off leaving him standing in just a pair of boxers. Jensen hesitantly slips off his own top revealing his very lean torso then bends down and gingerly works the tight compression bandage off his leg. The stump looks so much better than the last time Misha saw it. It's healing brilliantly, the scar is raised and deep red and the stump itself is swollen, will be for a while, but it's not nearly as bad as it was.  
  
Jensen looks down at his shorts, back up at Misha, fidgets with a loose thread at the hem then suddenly wriggles out of them, covering his crotch with his hands, face scarlet. Misha tries not to ogle, instead concentrates on figuring out the best way of doing this, debates whether he could just pick Jensen up and carry him to the shower.  
  
"If you're thinking about trying to pick me up, I will punch you in the face." Jensen is looking at him speculatively. Misha didn't think he was that obvious.  
  
"So, if you kind of use me as a crutch and then - " Misha thinks out loud then just says fuck it and loops an arm around his friend's waist.  
  
Jensen keeps hold of one crutch, supports himself between it and Misha. It's not any easier than picking him up off the floor, in fact it's awkward as hell. Not helped any by Misha being hyper-aware that Jensen, beautiful walking God Jensen, is pressed up against him butt naked.  
  
It's just as well he has a walk-in shower because he doesn't think they would manage to step into a tub without ending up in a messy heap on the floor. Eventually they end up with Jensen under the spray facing the shower, hands pressed hard against the stall walls on either side of him and Misha behind him holding onto his waist. There has to be an easier way to do this. It's probably in one of the many pamphlets that Jensen brought home from the hospital that neither of them looked at yet.  
  
"You want to wash your hair? I've got you if you want to let go or you could try sitting down maybe."  
  
“Yeah... no, I don’t think sitting down in here is an option. Could you have a smaller shower stall, really?”  
  
“I’m sorry the amenities aren’t five star quality, princess.” Misha grumbles. His shower stall is not that small. Not really - it's just a bit old maybe and not designed for two six foot plus tall men to fit in without getting up close and very personal.  
  
“Mish, I’ve stayed in Travelodges with better facilities. I thought a hot-shot artist like you would have a big ass tub. Actually I always imagined you’d have a giant hot-tub filled with naked twinks hidden away somewhere.”  
  
Jensen can't be feeling too bad if he's letting his inner snark loose. “Shut the hell up, Jennybean before I _accidentally_ drop your ungrateful ass. Now, do you want to try letting go and washing your hair or not?”  
  
"I don't think I want to let go. I don't really feel safe letting go. Could you maybe do it? You know if you stay behind me just in case -”  
  
"No, yeah sure." Misha says stretching up to the shelf above Jensen's head, just managing to grab hold of the shampoo bottle. He's practically plastered to Jensen's back, reluctant to leave him without support, as he squeezes a dollop of shampoo onto his hand. He massages it through Jensen's dirty blonde mop, rubbing his fingers in rough circles over Jensen's scalp before gently pushing his head forward and down to rinse the soap out under the spray.  
  
"You want me to... you know, wash the rest of you? Might be easier if I did."  
  
"Uhuh, yeah sure." Jensen doesn't sound that sure but Misha isn't seeing many other options if Jensen doesn't feel safe letting go of the walls.  
  
Grabbing the shower gel this time, he lathers up his hands before running them down Jensen's body. He starts at Jensen's broad shoulders, digging his thumbs into the tight knots buried below his shoulder blades. Jensen's pale skin, warm and a bit clammy, flushes pink under the hot water and the firm touch of Misha's hands. The bruises that covered Jensen a couple of weeks ago are mainly gone. A few sickly yellowish patches are barely visible but shouldn’t be for much longer. A long scar that’s already faded to a deep pink sweeps down Jensen’s side over his ribs, and Misha’s sure to be extra gentle when he works the soap into the tender new skin there.  
  
Misha's mouth is right next to Jensen's ear as he reaches around the narrow curve of his waist and Jensen shivers against him as his breath tickles the shell of his ear. Misha swipes feather-light trails of bubbles across his flat stomach, feels it ripple under his palm, carries on up as far as his chest. Jensen tenses as Misha's fingers touch another scar, deeper, thicker this time, raised and puffy under his fingertips, and he's careful not to linger on the sensitive skin surrounding it. His long fingers continue their soapy exploration of his friend's body. Jensen's nipples harden as he brushes across them. Maybe he imagines Jensen's shuddery intake of breath. Sinks lower again, back down his torso, dips into the hollow of his navel, spreads his palms wide and wipes soft circles over the notable jut of his hipbones.  
  
Jensen's lost so much weight. He was always slim, had to be in his profession, but all that time spent in the hospital has left him too skinny; his toned muscles eaten away by his body's fight to survive.  
  
Jensen freezes under his touch, his breath stutters, as Misha's fingers wander further down brushing against the coarse hair that trails down to his cock. Misha immediately stops, retreats. His mouth suddenly dry and heartbeat thumping wildly in his ears. Takes a deep breath before he continues, the tang of lemon scented shower gel and rising clouds of steam suddenly suffocating in the enclosed space. Bringing his hands back to the sweeping arc of Jensen's spine, he hesitates at the sight of Jensen's ass. Who wouldn't? It's spectacular. Round, pale, and luscious, just perfect for- no, not really the point here though. He watches streams of water run together in gentle flowing rivers down the undulating curves of Jensen's body as he gathers his courage. Maybe if he had a loofah this wouldn't be quite so awkward, files away a mental note to pick one up at the store. He squeezes out another puddle of yellow shower gel, rubs it between his palms until a frothy fountain forms, then as quickly and clinically as possible he washes Jensen's ass.  
  
Inevitably, with his hands cupping the generous flesh of Jensen's buttocks, watching drips of water trying to crawl down between those delicious cheeks, he ends up with his dick chubbing up against his thigh. Damn he's glad he left his boxers on, although they're soaked through and clinging to the obvious outline of his half-hard dick so they aren't that much help. He brushes his hands down around the strong muscles of Jensen's thighs, covering the fine golden hair with a layer of foamy bubbles before he reaches down past Jensen's knee to where his leg now ends abruptly, Jensen shifts under his hands, tries to pull away without actually going anywhere.  
  
"Stop," he says. "Please, that's enough. I mean that's fine, thanks."  
  
"Jensen, I don't mind. You need to keep it clean."  
  
"It's fine, Misha. I can't... I mean my arms... my arms are getting tired. I need to sit down. Please."  
  
Misha half thinks he should ignore Jensen. Show him that he doesn't mind touching his leg; it doesn't frighten him, or repulse him, or anything else that's going through Jensen's stubborn head. But he doesn't. He makes sure the last of the suds are washed away then switches the shower off.  
  
If Misha thought that clambering in to the shower was hard that was before he attempted climbing out of it. Now the floor is treacherously slippery under foot, they are both dripping wet, and Misha is trying to hide an embarrassing boner. That particular problem isn't helped at all by Jensen being adhered to his side, arm slung around Misha's shoulders like he's terrified Misha is going to drop him. All that wet skin clinging to his own isn't persuading his dick that its interest is completely and utterly unwelcome.  
  
He can't help but notice when, both panting heavily with the exertion, he helps Jensen sit back down on the toilet seat he isn't the only one having unruly penis issues. He grabs two towels, hands one to Jensen who swiftly covers himself up, but not before Misha notes that Jensen's dick is the prettiest he has ever seen, which is not only the gayest but also the lamest and possibly the most inappropriate thought that has ever entered his head.  
  
Jensen is his friend. Jensen has never shown the slightest interest in Misha in that way. Jensen is way out of his league. Jensen is still recovering from a traumatic experience and is definitely leaning towards the not-thinking-right end of the spectrum. Jensen doesn't do one night stands. Misha definitely doesn't do relationships.  
  
Misha's dick doesn't give a shit about any of that and his brain is not truly convinced either.  
  
Realizing he's drifted off into another universe and Jensen is shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his stare, Misha dries himself vigorously with his towel before wrapping it around his waist, ignoring the way his sopping wet shorts are sticking uncomfortably to his ass. Jensen is drying himself carefully and kind of weirdly. It takes a moment to click in to place that Jensen is trying to dry himself without uncovering his crotch and Misha feels even more of a moron.  
  
"Put that towel around you and I'll grab another one to dry your legs," he says.  
  
Jensen wraps the towel around his waist, it billows out across the toilet like a skirt, and he looks at Misha as though daring him to say something. Misha doesn't. He's not that big an idiot. He simply hands Jensen another towel.  
  
"I'll dry your leg if you want. Make sure it's done properly before you wrap it back up."  
  
"No thanks I can do it." Jensen replies muffled underneath the towel that he's drying his hair with.  
  
"Stop being so damn stubborn and let me do it," Misha snaps, grabbing the towel out of Jensen's hand. Kneeling in front of Jensen, he gently pats dry his stump, careful to dry all the way round it, making sure that Jensen really hasn't damaged it with his dramatic tumble out of bed.  
  
When he's finished he looks up to see Jensen staring at him with a strained expression on his face.  
  
"Misha... “he starts to say but Misha doesn't want thanks or anymore pigheaded bullshit so he cuts him off.  
  
"Come on, lets get you dressed then I'm going back to bed for a couple of hours. Do you have any idea what fucking time it is."  
  
"And I thought I was the lazy ass."  
  
"Bohemian artist here, my friend. I'm supposed to live a wild and crazy lifestyle. Not get up with the fucking larks."  
  
"Lazy. Ass."  
  
They snipe at each other the whole way back to Jensen's room, bickering like an old married couple. Fatigue appears to be getting the better of Jensen though, and his steps slow to a drag by the time he crosses the threshold of his bedroom. The bed dips under him as he sits down heavily and without a word of complaint he allows Misha to help him pull on a pair of soft jersey basketball shorts and a clean tee-shirt before taking care of his residual limb and redressing it. Misha hands him the bottle of water and a couple of his codeine pills which Jensen takes with a small smile of thanks.  
  
While his mood is still relatively light, Misha senses the opportunity to broach a subject that’s been prickling at him for a while now. It’s maybe unfair to do it after Jensen’s taken his pain meds but they shouldn’t have had a chance to kick in just yet.  
  
“Jensen?” Misha says. “Can I ask you a question?”  
  
“Yeah, I guess so.” Jensen replies shuffling his butt up the bed and leaning back against the headboard.  
  
“Can I ask...why... why you lied about Tom? About him being your boyfriend, I mean.”  
  
Jensen’s head falls back, colliding with the pine headboard with a dull thunk and he stares up the ceiling with an unsettling intensity. For a minute Misha thinks he’s screwed up. That Jensen’s mood has flipped again and he’s shut down but eventually, with a shrug of his shoulders, he shakes his head and looks back at Misha.  
  
“I don’t know man... I mean it wasn’t planned or anything. We were going out for a few months but it was never serious. We weren’t in love or anything. I mean Tom’s good looking and all but he’s not... well, he’s not someone I’d want to spend my life with.”  
  
“So, why did you let us think that you were together when you moved in with him?” Misha persists, doggedly seeking an answer.  
  
“Shit, Mish I don’t know. It was just easier - easier than explaining it to everyone and it stopped you from dragging me out with you on your twink hunting expeditions and kept Jared off my back about... well about dating... dating someone else.”  
  
That doesn’t make much sense to Misha. “Dating who?”  
  
“No-one, it doesn’t matter, Misha. Really, it doesn’t. I’m sorry alright? I shouldn’t have lied to you. Not about that or about...” Jensen sighs and rubs his fingers across his eyes, looking suddenly tired and strangely vulnerable. “I shouldn’t have lied to you about staying with Tom when I knew he was leaving.”  
  
Misha nods, his mouth abruptly drying out again, leaving him incapable of speech. Jensen has never talked to him about what he planned to do when he left the hospital and Misha doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond now. Is he supposed to say that it’s alright? Because it isn’t. Is he supposed to forgive Jensen or ask Jensen for forgiveness for being such a shitty friend that he didn't even notice how bad things were for him.  
  
He has to say something; Jensen is looking at him as though he’s expecting Misha to act as his judge, jury, and executioner.  
  
“It’s in the past now, Jen,” Misha says, his voice coming out in a low rasp that sounds as though it’s been raked over sandpaper. “You’re not-“ he coughs trying to alleviate the roughness in his throat and eyes Jensen’s bottle of water longingly. “You don’t still want to... you know... “  
  
Misha is so bad at this it’s laughable or it would be if it wasn’t so damn serious.  
  
“No...no...” Jensen shakes his head wildly. “No man I swear. I mean I’m not totally fine but I don’t want to... you know...”  
  
“Good, that’s... good.” As far as conversations go this one does not rank among Misha’s best. Awkward barely begins to cover it.  
  
“God, we suck so bad at this talking crap, don’t we.” Jensen says and Misha’s nerves erupt in a bark of laughter that thankfully Jensen joins in.  
  
“Okay, let’s not do that again.” Jensen says and Misha immediately feels like an ass.  
  
“You know I’m here if you want to talk though, right?”  
  
Jensen smiles... a proper smile for once; one that even reaches his eyes. “I know man. I appreciate it. Thanks... for everything; for tonight, for letting me stay here, for being such a good friend. You’ve been great, Misha, seriously.”  
  
A little of the weight that’s been pushing down on Misha’s shoulder lifts at last at the sight of Jensen’s easy smile.  
  
Jensen yawns. His jaw cracking at the strength of it. The drugs are obviously starting to kick in and keeping his eyes open appears to be a real problem all of a sudden. “Shit, I’m beat. I think I’m gonna crash for a while.”  
  
“Sure, sounds good to me.” Misha replies.  
  
After a bit of brainstorming they decide to place a couple of chairs beside the bed, backs facing Jensen, so that if he forgets about his leg the next time he wakes up, they'll hopefully stop him from hurtling to the floor before he remembers.  
  
Misha strips out of his uncomfortably wet shorts before clambering back into his own bed. One thing that painfully awkward conversation with Jensen did achieve was effectively killing his hard-on, so he doesn’t even consider jerking off.  
  
He drifts off to sleep again eventually. It’s not easy. He’s deliberately trying to steer his wandering thoughts away from (naked) Jensen. Trying not to think about how beautiful Jensen is despite the toll the accident has taken on his body and his spirit. He’s attempting not to focus on the way his heart stuttered in delighted relief at the sight of Jensen’s smile; about how the heat of his friend’s firm body felt under Misha’s hands and most definitely not thinking about how the ten minutes they spent pressed together in the shower were probably the most intimate moments of his life. Only as exhaustion finally pulls him under, Jensen is all he is thinking about.  
  
  
                                   
  
  


 

  
**Chapter Four**  
  
  
"Come on Jensen, just a couple of drinks." Chris is drunk enough already to start whining which is one more reason that Misha has a bad feeling that this evening is unlikely to end well.  
  
Jensen looks up at his cousin from his wheelchair and shakes his head. "Chris, I'm tired okay? This is the first time I've been out with you guys since the accident and it's been fun and all but I just want to go home now."  
  
Chris scowls petulantly, something else he wouldn't do unless well on his way to rolling drunk. "But I'm leaving tomorrow, Jenny; we always have a good luck drink before I go on tour."  
  
"Yeah?" Jensen raises an eyebrow. "Well, I think you've already had enough to drink for both of us. You must have been half-gone before you even got to the restaurant 'cause I didn't see you didn't drink that much with the meal... well, y'know, that much for you."  
  
Misha thinks Jensen might be right. Chris was in pretty high spirits by the time the pair of them had arrived at the restaurant and while they were the last to arrive, they weren't terribly late. A particularly gruelling session with Eva his evil (according to Jensen) physical therapist that afternoon had left Jensen feeling tired and grouchy, and he'd needed a little persuading not to just cancel on their friends tonight. Then there had been a brief but heated discussion on whether Jensen would use his wheelchair or not. He can get around perfectly well on his crutches but when his muscles were obviously already aching and the fine lines fanning from the corner of his shadowed eyed indicated that his pain meds weren't quite cutting it again, then using the wheelchair made much more sense. Misha had just needed to convince Jensen, the stubborn ass of that. Still, cajoling and persuading Jensen  to do something he doesn't want to do - or not to do something he does want to do - doesn't faze Misha any more. It's a pretty routine occurrence.  
  
In fact, everything about living with Jensen has become routine for Misha and for someone allergic to domesticity and the dreaded fear of having his personal space invaded; it's been something of a revelation. To his utter amazement he's found that he enjoys having Jensen in his home. He enjoys having someone to speak to, eat with, argue with, watch crappy daytime television shows with, and he enjoys looking after Jensen when given the opportunity. Even on the days that Jensen is an ill-natured pain in the ass, Misha enjoys poking and prodding at his crusty exterior until it cracks; there's a fifty/fifty chance that Jensen will punch him rather than smile, but he punches like a little girl so it's not much of a risk.  
  
And while he and Jensen have been good friends for years, they've grown immeasurably closer over the past couple of months of living together. Misha feels as though he knows Jensen so much better. Knows when he's in pain or just being a pain. Knows when he needs help and when he needs space. Knows when he's struggling to cope; the mixture of fear and depression dragging him dangerously low and when he's just plain bored out of his head.  
  
For example, he knows that Jensen would love to go home right now. He put on a convincing show of enjoying his meal in the restaurant with his friends but he never totally relaxed. His shoulders were raised a touch too high, the faint lines creasing his forehead etched a little too deep and his gaze constantly flickered around the restaurant, noting every single glance and sympathetic or curious look aimed his way. Misha also knows that Jensen doesn't want to let Chris down, still feels guilty for the hell he went through - they all went through - while he was in the hospital, so he knows that even though it's the last thing he wants to do, Jensen’s going to let Chris haul him to a bar.  
  
He's proved right. Which isn't unusual but for a change he wishes he wasn't.  
  
The bar they end up in isn't a complete dive like some of the out of the way hell-holes Chris has dragged them all to in the past, but unlike the restaurant that Jared had carefully chosen it's not exactly wheelchair friendly. It's stiflingly hot and noisy, eighties soft rock blares from the juke box by the door, and too many people are crowded in a too small space. Tables are haphazardly scattered through the room, jammed into tight spaces, and most of them occupied by far too many people. It's certainly not the kind of place Misha would normally choose to frequent but then Chris isn't looking to achieve the same goal at the end of the night that Misha usually is. Or possibly he is, just with one less dick involved.  
  
Danneel and Sandy miraculously manage to find a couple of free tables tucked away at the back of the room but by the time he and Jensen reach them, knocking into at least two tables and the back of someone's chair on the way past, it feels as though every eye in the bar is following them. Misha can’t see Jensen's face but he knows it must be burning because the tips of his ears are scarlet. Misha's face can't be much better, not because he's embarrassed though, more like pretty goddamn pissed off. Have they never seen anyone in a wheelchair before, seriously?  
  
"Come and help me fetch the drinks man," Jared says clasping his shoulder before Misha has a chance to grab a seat or turn back and raise hell with all the assholes staring their way.  
  
He looks at Jensen who's somehow tucked himself away in the back corner but he's talking to Genevieve and doesn't look like he needs Misha hovering at his side.  
  
"Sure," he shrugs, following Jared.  
  
There’s a small crowd of people hanging around the bar but for some reason, as usual, most of them drift out of Jared’s way leaving just a couple of guys standing in front of them who are already in the process of being served. Jared says his special ability to gravitate to the front of any line is all down to his magnetic personality and boyish good looks. If you ask Misha, it’s more to do with his moose-like stature and pathetic hang-dog expressions.  
  
“So, how’s Jensen doing now, really?” Jared asks as they wait for the bartender to finish serving the two guys ahead of them.  
  
"Jared, you and Gen dropped by two days ago; you know how he's doing." Misha's not concentrating on what Jared is asking; too busy attempting to peer back over the fluctuating movement of the crowd trying to catch a glimpse of Jensen.  
  
"Misha, I'm not stupid." Jared jabs his elbow into Misha's ribs to capture his attention. "I know Jensen's game face when I see it. I was kinda hoping that maybe he dropped it with you. That he let you in a bit more than the rest of us now."  
  
Misha shifts uncomfortably, unfastens the top couple of buttons on his black button-down, tugs at his collar. He'd never really thought about it. About the fact that he's the only one that Jensen allows to peer behind his stoic facade. “Well, he's better than he was. It’s hard to tell with Jensen though. I mean, sure he whines and bitches when he's having a rough day but you know what he’s like; keeps his emotions buttoned up tight.”  
  
“He talk about it much, the accident? What happened at the hospital? Tom?”  
  
“No, not really." Misha shakes his head, rubs his fingers over the soft scruff on his chin. "He says he doesn’t remember the accident at all or being in the Intensive Care Unit.”  
  
“You believe him?” Jared looks cynical.  
  
Misha shrugs. “Yeah, I guess so. Something like that happens, I think self-preservation kicks in and your brain does its best to forget. If he does remember, he sure isn’t talking about it.”  
  
"He’s still seeing the psychologist or the counsellor or someone though, right?”  
  
“Yeah, he’s talked to the psychiatrist the hospital set him up with a couple of times. I think he’s got another appointment with her next week.”  
  
“Good, that’s good,” Jared nods. "Has he said any more about what he's going to do? I mean he's not gonna be able to model anymore is he?"  
  
It’s not something Misha and Jensen have discussed. Avoiding the subject isn’t a great idea but Misha figures Jensen has enough to deal with right now without stressing about the future. "He hasn't said. I don't think he's in a hurry to make any big decisions. He'll find something though. It's not like modelling was his life's ambition."  
  
"Christ, no," Jared laughs. "Do you remember how sick he got before his first fashion show. I thought the poor guy was gonna need to walk down the runway with a bucket in his hand."  
  
Misha smiles at the memory. "He was something special though, right? As soon as he got up on that stage... it was like he belonged there. Like he was a different person when he was in front of the cameras and all those people."  
  
He's never going to get to do that again. Misha's smile fades as he thinks about it. Never going to strut down a runway with his head held high and a wicked glint in his eyes like he's king of the whole damn world. Never going to be that Jensen. The Jensen's that's a confident, drop-dead gorgeous, everyone wants to fuck or be fucked by him, model. The Jensen that had photographer's begging for just one more money-making smile, one more glimpse of that cocky smirk. Even if that was never the real Jensen, if it was just a costume he wore to work every day - it's still a huge part of who Jensen is... was. Misha can't imagine what it would feel like to have such a huge part of your life ripped away so brutally. God, if someone told him he could never paint again...  
  
Jared's solid shoulder knocks into Misha's shaking him out of his thoughts. He must have been miles away, the guys in front of them have disappeared and it looks like Jared's already ordered their drinks. "He'll be okay, man. He's gonna find something he likes doing just as much. I honestly never thought he'd carry on with the whole blue-steel thing after he'd paid his way through college. He was so fucking talented, it seemed like a bit of a waste. Remember those scary as hell comic strips he drew, they were awesome. What was it again... ?"  
  
"What... oh yeah that's right, the monster hunting brothers with the fierce as fuck guardian-angel dude. Yeah, that was some pretty cool shit. God, if he heard you calling it a comic strip he'd kick your ass." Misha grins, remembering the time Jensen hadn't talked to him for a week after he'd dismissing his prized collection of graphic novels as a bunch of kid's comics. It's easy to forget how big a geek Jensen was back in college.  
  
"What about you? You doing okay?” Jared asks, drawing Misha out of his thoughts again. He's shooting Misha a concerned look.  
  
"Me? Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" Misha can't hide his surprise at the question.  
  
"Well, it can't be easy for you either; living with Jensen, ferrying him about to all his appointments, putting up with his moods-wings. We both know how much of a prickly bastard he can be on a good day and he's not exactly in the best of moods right now, is he?"  
  
"I'm damn sure if someone hacked your leg off you wouldn't be a sparkling ball of sunshine all the time either." Misha snipes back, hackles rising, defensive on Jensen's behalf.  
  
"No man, I know, I know. I didn't mean it like that," Jared backtracks quickly. "It’s just... you’ve always been so adamant about not having any distractions when you’re working, needing your own space. Now suddenly you’ve got Jensen living with you 24/7. It must be a shock to the system.”  
  
“He’s my friend,” Misha bristles. “Helping him out's hardly an inconvenience. I don’t mind having him around. In fact, I quite enjoy it. It’s... nice.”  
  
Jared raises an eyebrow, “Nice, huh? Well, you know if you need a break sometime, me and Gen can come over and watch him."  
  
"He's not a baby Jared, or a fucking puppy. He can stay on his own, look after himself. He copes fine while I go to the grocery store, you know. He even managed to survive when I was at a meeting with an agent all yesterday afternoon without killing himself. "  
  
They both cringe as soon as the sentence leaves Misha's mouth. That's not what Misha meant but the words cut too close to the bone for comfort.  
  
"I'm sorry man, I didn't mean it like that. I just wanted you to know that we're all here if you and Jensen need us. If you want to get out for the night, have some fun, find some... you know... company, I'll come over and sit with him. We can catch up properly; play some video games like we used to, blow shit up or play some Mario Kart. I bet he can kick my ass now, he’s probably sitting playing games all day.”  
  
Misha shakes his head, “Not that much. When he’s not doing his physio, he’s usually asleep or mainlining NCIS. He’s getting a bit obsessive about it; I think he’s crushing on Gibbs.”  
  
“Poor guy sounds like he needs to get laid,” Jared laughs. “Speaking of... if do you want to get out and blow off some steam, I mean it; just give me a call and I’ll come over and spend some time with Jen. I’m surprised you haven’t brought it up before. I thought you’d be going nuts by now.”  
  
Before Misha can reply, Jared's eyes flick to bartender beginning to place their drinks on the bar. He pulls some bills from his pocket to pay while Misha picks up half the drinks and carefully threads his way through the maze of tables and bodies back to their little group.  
  
He's grateful to escape the conversation in all honesty, for the chance to think. He hasn't felt the need to blow off steam since Jensen moved in. Hasn't even thought about hitting the clubs or finding a quick hook-up. Contrary to popular belief, he's not a slave to his dick. He is capable of going a few weeks without finding a handy mouth or ass to fuck. But, he hasn't even thought about it once lately. Hasn't even thought about it while jerking off at night. Hasn't imagined a baby-faced twink on his knees begging for Misha’s dick. In fact, the only face that's flitted into his head, the only plush lips and hungry eyes that he's conjured up as he's spilled over his own fist have belonged to... to Jensen. Shit. Shit, that's... that's fucking... that's... well Misha doesn't know what the hell it is. Fucked up? Weird? It's enough to send him into a minor panic attack definitely.  
  
Jensen shoots him an odd look as Misha hands him his glass of fresh-ish orange juice, but if he knows there's something up he doesn't comment on it, much to Misha's relief. He gulps down a good third of his glass of Pepsi  in one go, wishing for the first time all night it was something stronger. The thought flies from his head as soon as it enters it; the stupidity and danger of drunk driving has been brought home to all of them in a shocking way and the appeal of losing himself in an alcohol-induced cloud of oblivion is short-lived. He's not the only one staying safely on the wagon tonight either. Jensen isn't drinking; alcohol, pain meds, and a changed centre of gravity too obviously a recipe for disaster. Gen is apparently a designated driver sticking religiously to soft drinks and Misha hasn't seen Steve with a drink in his hand either so he's probably delegated with making sure Chris is alive and in a fit state to actually leave for their tour tomorrow.  
  
Allowing his breathing time to even out and the tension to ease from the back of his neck Misha slouches back in his seat and observes his friends. Watches as Chris knocks back his drink, disappears, and returns suspiciously less steady on his feet with another beer and what looks to be a whisky chaser. Watches with a smile as the volume of the girls’ conversation rises, hands telling animated stories, gossiping and giggling, white teeth flashing against their honeyed tans, oblivious to the increasing number of admiring glances from the surrounding tables.  
  
He watches Jensen trying to hide in the corner, talking to Jared and Steve only when he has to, hand frequently fluttering up to self-consciously cover the left hand side of his face. Misha barely notices the scar winding down his cheek any more: it's just become part of Jensen. It doesn't make him any less gorgeous. If anything, it reminds Misha of how lucky he is to still have his friend in his life.  
  
Misha's come to terms with the changes in Jensen's appearance a lot faster than Jensen himself has, but then he's not the one who looks in the mirror and sees a stranger looking back. That's the way Jensen feels: an admittance confided only after a long day of painful physio, a reluctantly attended session with his psychiatrist, and a heavy dose of pain-meds on a too empty stomach.  
  
"So you getting one of those bionic leg things soon then, son?"  
  
Misha's attention snaps back to the scene in front of him at the sound of Chris's incredibly loud if slightly slurred question.  
  
"Shit man, you talking to us or the folks standing outside?" Steve says, slapping Chris across the back of his head.  
  
Looking bewildered rather than chastised Chris swipes Steve's hand away with a mumbled curse but Jensen shoots Steve a grateful look before he answers just loud enough to be audible above the buzz in the bar. "Yeah, I should get my prosthetic leg next week."  
  
"That's great, Jensen," Sandy beams.  
  
"Yeah, that's awesome news, man. You going to be able to drive your car again?" Jared asks.  
  
Jensen's pale complexion turns dusky pink under the unwanted attention as everyone turns to look at him. Misha tracks the blush as it spreads down his neck, down the dip of his throat to the triangle of pale skin just visible at the open collar of his button down.  
  
Jensen's voice, low and unsure, brings Misha's gaze back up to his face. "Sure yeah, I think so. They said I should be able to, but you know I haven't even walked on it yet so I'm not sure if I'll be able to- "  
  
"Oh come on Jenny," Chris says voice still a decibel louder than anyone else's in the bar. "You can do anything you put your mind to. You always were a stubborn little brat. Shit, remember that time, your mom told you, you were too small to play in the treehouse with Jake and me? You scaled that big old oak tree in my garden like a goddamn monkey, clung to the top branches until your momma's head nearly exploded."  
  
"Chris, shut the hell up. That's hardly the same thing." Jensen hisses, cringing in embarrassment as everyone else laughs.  
  
"Of course, once you were ungrounded and she let you play up there with us you did fall out and break your arm so that maybe ain’t the best example. Fuck, didn't think your arm would ever straighten out, looked like a goddamn banana for months. Then there was that time that she wouldn't let you have a BMX..."  
  
Chris has at least a book's worth of childhood stories about Jensen that in his drunken good mood he kindly decides to share with them all. Jensen looks like he's praying for the power of invisibility, shrinking down in his chair as everyone around him laughs at Chris's wild tales of a mischievous little Jensen and his attempts to keep up with his older brother and cousin that all seem to end with Jensen either grounded or in the Emergency Room. Even taking into account Chris’s penchant for exaggeration and disregard for those pesky details that might ruin an entertaining story, it sounds increasingly miraculous that Jensen survived his childhood at all.  
  
"Jake always was a good little momma's boy. He ran home telling tales every time you did something stupid." Chris says, tipping his bottle up and draining the last stubborn drops clinging to the bottom.  
  
"Every time you did something stupid and I copied you," Jensen amends.  
  
"Well, at least we had fun, Jenny. Jake wouldn't know a good time if it threw up over him. Homophobic asshole."  
  
The light mood suddenly freezes, balances dangerously on a knife's edge.  
  
"Don't Chris, please." Jensen says quietly.  
  
"Don't worry, not gonna talk about him or your bible bashing, pathetic excuse for parents anymore." Chris slams his empty bottle down on the table. Jensen jumps in his chair.  
  
"Sorry Jenny, sorry." Chris pushes himself up and away from the table, stumbles backwards and crashes into a table behind them. Glasses rattle and a bottle tips over onto its side sending beer sloshing onto the floor in a sticky puddle. Chris doesn't acknowledge, probably doesn't even notice the disgruntled complaints from their neighbours. "Can't believe the way they treat you just for being gay. Even after..." Chris doesn't finish that sentence just gesticulates towards Jensen's wheelchair. "Who fucking gives a shit how you get your rocks off? No-one's business but yours if you like cock Jenny, don't matter what those ignorant assholes say," he declares very seriously and loud enough for half the street to hear before weaving unsteadily towards the bar.  
  
"You okay?" Genevieve quietly asks Jensen, whose face has turned a violent shade of pickled beets.  
  
Jensen shrugs off her concern, slips on a plastic smile. "Sure. It's just Chris. You know what he's like when he's been drinking." Misha doesn't know if Jensen has always sucked so horrendously at lying or if it's a bizarre side-effect of his accident. Maybe Misha's just grown better at reading him.  
  
The awkward silence only lasts a beat before Danneel asks Genevieve about her and Jared's wedding plans, and despite the groans of complaint from the guys it's patently obvious they're all grateful for the swift change of subject. Steve excuses himself and heads with determined steps, steely eyes, and mouth in a grim line towards Chris who's propped against the bar downing a shot of something unidentifiable.  
  
The flush on Jensen's face fades, leaving him looking even more washed out in its wake. The dark shadows under his eyes are just a bit more pronounced than normal and he's pinching the bridge of his nose sharply between his thumb and forefinger as though warding off a headache. Misha takes advantage of Chris and Steve's vacated seats and slides a bit closer to Jensen, where conversation without yelling is a possibility. “You okay?”  
  
Jensen nods his head then twists his neck so it turns into more of a confused shake.  
  
"You want to head home? I doubt Chris'll even notice we're gone. It looks like Steve is going to have to pour him into a cab soon."  
  
Jensen gives his head a definite shake this time. "I'm fine Misha, honest. I don't want to be a dick. Don't want to ditch everyone when they're trying so hard to be nice."  
  
"Jensen, they're your friends. They just want you to have a good time. They're not gonna mind if you're tired."  
  
"It's fine, Misha. I don't mind hanging out a bit longer." Jensen argues. "Besides, this is the first time you've been out for weeks too and you've not had a chance to get laid yet. We can go somewhere else if you want, find one of those twinky little asses you like."  
  
"I'm not in the mood tonight, Jensen." Misha tries to explain but Jensen looks at him skeptically.  
  
"Since when are you not in the mood to get laid? Is it my fault? Am I cramping your style?" Jensen is joking but Misha doesn't laugh. Can't laugh, his throat suddenly dry and his head a confused tangled knot of unwanted thoughts. It is Jensen's fault, kind of. Just not in the way he thinks and fuck if that revelation isn't just a bit much for Misha to process right now.  
  
The lop-sided grin on Jensen's face disappears when Misha doesn't laugh or spit out a sarcastic reply.  
  
"Shit, I am cramping your style. Sorry man, I can... you know... I can probably stay over at Jared and Gen's tonight, they've got a spare room and I don't think they'll mind."  
  
"No! No Jensen that's not - “Misha tries to assure him but it's too late and Jensen's obviously got the idea well and truly lodged in his head now.  
  
"Fuck, I'm a selfish ass. Why didn't you say anything? You've been stuck at home looking after me for weeks and you can't even bring anyone back because I'm always there." Jensen is speaking a mile a minute, words flowing from his mouth in an unstoppable babble. "It's too much right? I'm getting in your way. You hate people clinging to you, sucking the energy from you, you always said you needed your own space and now you don't even have your own house to yourself. I'm so wrapped up in my problems that I never considered - I'm sorry man. I'll find somewhere else to go. I'll -"  
  
Misha's arm swings out, the palm of his hand clamping across Jensen's mouth. "Jensen, shut the hell up for a minute and let me speak."  
  
Jensen's look of cross eyed shock is hilarious and well worth the curious stares aimed in their direction. He frees Jensen's mouth quickly though, he just needed to put a halt to Jensen's tirade before he talked himself down a hole. "You aren't in my way. I enjoy having you around."  
  
Jensen, the stubborn idiot, isn't convinced. "But you always said -”  
  
Shaking his head, Misha says, "I know what I said, Jensen. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I've changed, but I promise you aren't in my way. I don't want you to leave. I've gotten used to having your lazy ass around.”  
  
"My lazy ass!" Jensen splutters. "You're the one that'd sleep till lunch time if I didn't wake you up."  
  
"Well then it's a good job I've got you around," Misha replies smirking happily into the remains of his glass of soda.  
  
Jensen opens his mouth, closes it again. It's an awesome impression of a goldfish and there's a joke in there about fish lips that it just isn't the time for.  
  
"Does either of you two want another drink now that you've finished your domestic dispute?" Jared asks looking at them curiously.  
  
"No, I'm good thanks." Misha says hoping Jensen will take the hint, relent and call it a night.  
  
"Jensen?"  
  
"Nah, not for me. Think I'm going to head home soon if you don't mind. I'm pretty wiped out to be honest." Jensen admits.  
  
"Of course man. We're probably gonna take off soon too. We're spending the day with Gen's family tomorrow so I don't want to be too hung-over." Jared explains.  
  
"You know they love you, Jared. You're a parents’ wet dream. All those yes sirs and shucks you look more like sisters; you know how to work the charm." It's not something Misha has ever had to worry about, thankfully. He has a tendency to come across as a bit of an arrogant prick rather than serious boyfriend material. Which is, well... pretty accurate really.  
  
"Yeah well, we've got some news for them and I'm not sure if my boyish charm is gonna stop Gen's mom and dad from kicking my ass this time."  
  
"That sounds ominous," says Misha. "You want to share with the class?"  
  
"Erm, let me think... no," replies Jared, looking across to where Genevieve is still gossiping with Danneel who's demonstrating something incredibly lewd with her tongue.  
  
"Come on, Jared. I thought we were your best friends. You can tell us," Misha badgers. Not that he's nosy or insanely curious, but Jared is his best friend; if he's in trouble Misha wants to help or, y'know, laugh.  
  
Jared shakes his head. "I promised Gen I wouldn't say anything until we talked to her parents."  
  
"C'mon man, look you're getting Jensen all upset and worried. You can't say shit like that and not tell us what's up."  
  
Jensen who doesn't look remotely worried laughs. "Leave me the hell out of it, Misha."  
  
Damn, he'd thought Jensen might have backed him up, two against one always worked before, but then with a put upon sigh Jensen adds "If Jay doesn't trust us with his problems anymore that's alright. I mean if it wasn't for us there'd be no Jared and Gen. He'd probably still have Alexis dragging him around by the balls and Gen'd be with that weirdo with the foot fetish. But he doesn't have to share anything with us Misha, even if we are like brothers. Blood brothers even."  
  
Misha almost wants to applaud, that was some impressive bullshit.  
  
"Shut the fuck up, dickhead. We aren't blood brothers. That was an accident. An accident you caused trying to dance on top of a table covered in glasses after attempting to drown yourself in a bottle of Jose Cuervo."  
  
Jensen shivers, "Yeah, can't even smell that stuff now without wanting to hurl. Still, you had my back then and Misha and I just want to help you now if you want to, y'know... share."  
  
Jared shakes his head just as Gen tosses him a small smile before joining the rest of the girls walking towards the ladies room en masse.  
  
Snapping his head back he points his finger sternly at Misha and Jensen. "Okay, fine, but when Gen and I officially tell you this, you'd better act surprised or when Gen's done kicking my ass I'm gonna kill the pair of you." He doesn't continue until he gets solemn nods in response from Jensen and Misha. "We're bringing the wedding forward a few months. In fact we're getting married in four months."  
  
"That's not a big-" Misha starts to say, not really seeing what the problem is even considering how psychotic some parents can be about their daughter's weddings.  
  
Jared cuts him off, "-and Gen's gonna be six months pregnant."  
  
"Fuckin shit! Seriously?"  
  
Slapping Misha across the back of his head, Jensen congratulates Jared. "That's amazing Jay. Seriously, that's the best news. Gen's parents are gonna be thrilled."  
  
"You think?" Jared says all wide-eyed and doubtful. It's amazing how despite his behemoth frame he still manages to look like a little kid sometimes.  
  
"Of course they are you moron." Jensen tells him with one of his patented eye-rolls. "And hey, at least you proposed before you knocked their daughter up, that's got to count for something."  
  
"You're going to be a dad?" Misha says, and yeah, he's slightly slower at digesting the news than Jensen, but that's huge, life-changing news. One of his best friends is going to have a kid. That's... that's grown-up. "What happened to the life-plan, to not having kids 'til you're thirty?"  
  
Jared rubs his hand down the back of his neck uncomfortably, looks at Jensen a bit warily. "Well lately, we just got to thinking that, well... life's short. You don't know what's going to happen do you? And we both want kids, we can afford to do it - so why wait? Sometimes you just have to grab life while you can."  
  
Jensen reaches across the table, dragging Jared into a hug. "Of course you do man. I think it's fucking awesome."  
  
"You're going to be a dad!"  
  
Jensen throws a beer mat, which hits Misha square between the eyes. "Yes he is, idiot, and we are gonna be kick-ass uncles. Stop being such a dick."  
  
"Congratulations, Jared. That's great. Unbelievable, but fucking great. You and Gen are going to be the best parents and I, obviously, am going to be the coolest uncle ever." Misha says,finally getting his act together enough not to act like a total jackass, throwing his arm around Jared's shoulder squeezing him tight.  
  
"No dude I get to be the cool uncle, you're totally gonna be crazy uncle Misha - the weird arty uncle who smells funky."  
  
"If the pair of you are still discussing it when Gen gets back neither of you are gonna be around to meet the kid. Listen, she's only a couple of months pregnant so we're keeping this real quiet. Not a word to anyone, understand?"  
  
"Sure, Jay; no problem." Jensen says looking happier than he has for months, a grin splitting his face, his eyes sparkling so bright that even in the dim lighting Misha can see them shining. His fingers twitch, drum impatiently against his thighs itching for a pencil, a brush, even a crayon would do, just something to capture that stunning pool of glistening green. Misha could forget to breathe staring at those mesmerizing wells of ever-changing color.  
  
The room doesn't come back into focus again until Jared's ridiculously large hand whacks him across the back of the head. And what's up with that, has someone painted a bulls-eye back there without him noticing. "Remember, not a word."  
  
Misha looks up to see Jensen staring at him, head tilted, eyes narrowed as though he's trying to figure out the answer to a riddle and he's embarrassingly grateful for the distraction of riotous noise that erupts around them as the girls return from the restroom.  
  
It's only ten minutes later that Jared and Gen make their excuses and get set to leave, giving Jensen and Misha the perfect opportunity to bail as well. As usual, everyone swaps hugs and kisses, catcalls and teasing exchanges, until they’ve all well and truly said goodbye before breaking up to head their separate ways. Jensen has the tricky job of maneuvering his wheelchair out of the tight corner he's somehow managed to wedge himself in to. Misha steps in to help once Jensen has rolled himself free enough of the corner to allow him to slip in and reach the handles.  
  
Jensen can wheel himself, is fairly adept at it now actually, but it can be hell on his arms especially at the end of the day when he's already fatigued. Even with Misha pushing it's not easy to free themselves from the crowd of tables and people.  
  
"Watch where you're going, asshole." A pudgy young guy standing at the table beside theirs spits as Misha accidentally hits the back of his legs with the chair.  
  
"Sorry man, not much room to move here," Misha apologises trying to steer a path between people who refuse to move and chairs that can't move.  
  
"Maybe you should have thought about that before you brought the retard in here."  
  
"What did you just say?" Misha stops dead, turns to face the drunk cretin that he's about to punch.  
  
"Leave it, Misha. Let's just get out of here," Jensen urges him.  
  
"Yeah _Misha_ just fuck off and take your pet faggot with you." The man sneers turning back to his group of equally drunk laughing friends and taking a pull from his bottle of beer.  
  
Misha can't help himself; his hands drop their grip of the wheelchair handles and he shoves the Neanderthal squarely between his shoulder-blades, knocking his teeth into the glass bottle.  
  
"What the fuck!" The guy splutters, beer dribbling down his chin. "You really want to start something, asshole?Think you and your gimpy friend'll get out of here in one piece if you do?"  
  
"Don't talk about him like that," Misha grits out. He can't remember the last time he felt this fucking mad. Normally he can cut ignorant morons like this jerk to ribbons with a few caustic words, but he's so angry right now that he can't even think straight.  
  
"Misha please, lets just leave okay. He's not worth it." Misha ignores Jensen's pleading, doesn't take his eyes off the guy standing in front of him.  
  
"Listen to your little homo friend, he's obviously got the sense not to fuck with real men. Looks like someone already taught him what happens to queers that do. Is that what happened? You hit on the wrong guy?"  
  
"I was in an accident, you dickhead." Jensen's voice wavers but Misha refuses to take his eyes off the idiot in front of him to see if he's upset or just as spitting mad as Misha is.  
  
"Fuck," the guy laughs. "That's even better. Guess God showed you what he thinks of faggots then. Got what you deserved, didn't you? Should be grateful he didn't send you straight to hell; that's sure as shit where you're gonna end up."  
  
Misha doesn't punch people as a rule. Hasn't for years. Not even Tom and he'd been sorely tempted plenty of times. It's not a conscious decision this time. His fist is crashing into the guy's nose, blood spraying over his knuckles before Misha even realizes he's thrown it.  
  
The effect is instantaneous. The guy punches back as hard as it looks like he can. Pain explodes down the side of Misha's face as he stumbles backwards into another table.  
  
His eyes scrunch up in pain, and very distantly he hears Jensen shouting his name as hands grip his biceps and he knows he's about to get the living shit kicked out of him by meathead and his friends. He only hopes Jensen manages to get out of the way.  
  
To his surprise, and everlasting gratitude, the hands wrapped around his arms are suddenly ripped away and he's left sprawled backwards on his elbows over a table top. He slowly rights himself and unscrews his eyes to see a scene right out of a movie unfolding in front of him. It's an honest to god bar-fight. Punches are being thrown, predominantly by Chris but Jared and Steve aren't holding back either, there's someone screaming in the background, and a big bear of a bouncer is practically throwing people out of his path as he storms towards them.  
  
It's pretty damn cool actually.  
  
But it could be time to leave. He looks around to see Jensen with blood trickling down the corner of his mouth and some guy kneeling on the floor beside him holding his crotch. Shouting across the melee at Jared to grab Chris and Steve and get the hell out before someone calls 911, Misha lurches towards the wheelchair on legs that are shaking so violently they feel as though they belong to someone else. Mind set on nothing but making it to the exit, he pushes Jensen through the crowd of onlookers and bar-staff until at last they reach the door. With Jared, Chris, and Steve hot on their heels, they spill out onto the sidewalk right in front of the girls who look at them in open-mouthed shock when the five of them start laughing hysterically.  
  
"Now that's the perfect way to end a good night out boys, "Chris grins, spitting a mouthful of blood at his feet.  
  
Steve shakes his head, shoves Chris's shoulder. "Come on Scrappy, let’s get the hell out of here before the cops show up."  
  
Misha flexes his hand experimentally, relieved to find that although it hurts like hell nothing feels broken. "Thanks guys. I think he might have killed me if you hadn't stepped in."  
  
"Don't be stupid, Misha," Jared says, herding them all down the street towards where Misha's car is parked he notes with some relief, "We couldn't let those idiots get away with that bullshit."  
  
"What did that asshole say about Jenny?" Chris asks.  
  
Deciding that he'd quite like to go home, rather than get arrested or have to bail Chris out of jail again, Misha avoids the question completely, swiftly changes the subject. "Is everyone alright? You okay, Jensen?"  
  
"Sure," Jensen says. "I'm so sorry about all that."  
  
"Don't be silly, Jensen." Danneel says, handing him a tissue from her purse to blot up the stream of blood that's oozing from the corner of his mouth. "It was those ignorant creeps’ fault not yours."  
  
"And Chris, the stupid fuckwit, didn't help by being his usual loud and obnoxious self." Steve adds, expertly ignoring the scowl that Chris sends his way.  
  
"As long as everyone's okay, that's the main thing." Jared swings his arm protectively around Genevieve's shoulders, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head.  
  
"Shit yeah, I forgot," Jensen sounds suddenly breathless. "Are you alright Gen, no-one knocked into you or anything did they? I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you or the-"  
  
"Jensen!" shouts Jared, face-palming.  
  
"If anything happens to-?" says Genevieve glaring at Jared accusingly.  
  
"What?" Chris looks utterly confused.  
  
"Uh, oops?" says Jensen.  
  
Misha can only laugh as chaos erupts around them again.  
  
  
  
  
"You think Gen's forgiven Jared yet?" Jensen asks Misha, sitting down and resting his crutches against the kitchen table. He takes the dripping ice-pack from Misha's swollen knuckles, throws it - with years of baseball pitching accuracy - into the sink, and lays a fresh one down in its place.  
  
"Yeah, I think so. I don't think she's capable of holding a grudge for long." Misha says, wincing as Jensen presses a bag of frozen peas to the side of his face.  
  
"Sorry, we're out of ice-packs," Jensen says. "It's probably the first time I've been grateful to be in a wheelchair. I thought Jared was going to flatten me."  
  
Misha grins, regrets it immediately. "Ow, man I knew there was a reason I never got in a fight before. I'm just glad it was you that opened your big mouth instead of me. I don't think Jared'll be telling us any more secrets any time soon."  
  
"I think I might have blown my chance of them naming the kid after me too, or being a godfather. Aw crap, I could have been the Godfather, how cool would that have been?'  
  
"A godfather Jen, not the Godfather. Don't think it has the same cool points."  
  
"Whatever. It's good though, right? Genevieve being pregnant. They're gonna be awesome parents."  
  
"Of course they are," Misha says taking the bag of peas off his face. The cold's more painful than the bruise it's supposed to be helping. "I don't really think they even minded you telling everyone; Gen was literally glowing and Jared was grinning like an idiot. I've never seen them look happier."  
  
"Yeah," Jensen agrees. "Put those peas back on."  
  
"It hurts." Misha whines when Jensen pushes them back against his face.  
  
"It'll bring the bruising and swelling down. Don't be a baby. You know, you didn't have to defend my honor back there. It's not the first time we've gotten shit from homophobic assholes, and it probably won't be the last."  
  
"I know," Misha agrees. He doesn't know how to explain the red mist of rage that descended over him, hearing them talking like that about Jensen. "It was totally unprovoked though Jen, there was no need for it. I know Chris had been shooting his mouth off and probably pissing them off earlier, but it wasn't like we were making out in front of them and even if we had been, it still wouldn't have given them the right to call you names, and-" Misha's rant peters off when he realizes that Jensen is looking at him as though he's a bug under a microscope again.  
  
"Anyway," he coughs, looking away. "It was certainly a night to remember."  
  
"Yeah, it certainly was." Jensen agrees, voice surprisingly soft.  
  
The silence between them isn't awkward, but there's a tension in the air that doesn't normally exist. Misha is acutely aware of Jensen's hand cupping his face, even if he can't feel it through the bag of frozen peas and the spreading numbness. Minutely he pushes his face into Jensen's hand, wishes silently he could feel Jensen's touch.  
  
"Thanks for not telling Chris what that idiot said by the way." Jensen eventually says, distracting Misha from the thought of Jensen's strong fingers. "He'd have gone nuts if he'd heard it, especially after the amount he'd had to drink. It was just a bit too close to my father's view on things for comfort."  
  
"What?" Misha's eyes snap to Jensen's.  
  
"Yeah, apparently he told Chris's mom that I got what I deserved. God's punishment, y'know, for being a fag."  
  
"Jensen that's... that's bullshit." And sickening. How can a father think anything that vile never-mind actually say it. He knew Jensen's family were small-minded, intolerant, bigots but he didn't think even they could be so cruel.  
  
"Yeah, I know. It's fine, I shouldn't have expected anything different from them." Jensen tries to brush it off but he can't hold Misha's gaze, drops his eyes and studiously examines the table top. Not before Misha sees the sheen of tears covering them.  
  
"It's not fine, Jensen. Not by a fucking mile. You should have expected a bit of concern and care, not that venomous garbage. I though God was all about love and forgiveness and caring about one another."  
  
"Huh, not their god," Jensen's tone is bitter enough to turn the inside of Misha's mouth dry. "He's gonna roast my ass over hellfire for eternity, and yours, and anyone else who loves the wrong person."  
  
Jensen's hand falls away from Misha's face, dumping the dripping bag of peas onto the table. He wipes his hand dry on his thigh. "Don't worry about it, Misha, honestly. I'm past caring. I knew what they were like, knew they were never gonna change, not even for me. At least I don't have to listen to it anymore... and I've got you guys now. You're more of a family than they ever were."  
  
Jensen meets his eye again and Misha can see the truth there, and the gratitude. "We'll always be here for you, Jensen. I'll always be here for you."  
  
Jensen leans forward and Misha's breath catches in his throat. With unexpected gentleness, Jensen brushes a silken kiss against the bruised skin of Misha's cheek. "Thanks, Misha. For everything. I love you, man."  
  
As Jensen levers himself up from his seat with his crutches and hobbles from the room Misha stares at his retreating back. The words I _love you_ ring deafeningly in his ears as his heart lurches and starts pounding a new rhythm in his chest.  
  


 

  
**Chapter Five**  
  
  
Misha's neighbours have a pool. Misha has lived in this house for nearly eighteen months and the only reason that he's now discovered his neighbours have a pool in their back yard is because Jensen just walked through the back door wearing a pair of short black swim-shorts that are clinging obscenely around the curve of his ass and a thin grey t-shirt that's molded to him like a second skin. The soft material stretches tight across Jensen's broad shoulders, dark patches spreading slowly like melting butter down the center of his damp back. If only Jensen wasn't so reticent about displaying his body, wasn't so ridiculously embarrassed by his scars, Misha could be viewing that firm chest and lean torso glimmering with drops of water.  
  
As much as the memory of all that skin under his hands in the shower months ago remains a crystal clear image locked inside his head, Misha would love to see an updated version. The firm biceps emerging from the short sleeves of Jensen's tee show how toned Jensen's become again in the past couple of months. Long lean muscle and delicate pale skin. It's a dangerous picture.  
  
"So they have a pool?"  
  
"Yeah, they have a pool. Do you know that you have paint in your hair by the way and just on your cheek there and Jesus, did you get any on the canvas this morning?" Jensen drops a small holdall on the table, reaches over and rubs a smear of paint from Misha's cheek bone with the pad of his thumb. "How could you not know they have a pool? Sam said I could use it anytime I wanted. She used to be a nurse you know, but she helps Jeff out with his business now." Picking up a towel, Jensen roughly dries his hair and is thankfully oblivious to the way Misha's staring at the drop of water meandering torturously slowly down the inside of his thigh.  
  
"Jeff?" Misha asks absently, his tongue slipping out and running over his dry lips as he tries not to imagine licking the teasing drop of water right off that firm muscle.  
  
"Jeff Morgan, Sam's husband. Your neighbours? Misha, do you not talk to anyone? Anyway, he has this business, something to do with restoring old motorbikes. He's pretty successful by the look of things and I have to say scorching hot too. It's a shame he's married and well... straight. Cool guy though."  
  
Misha has never met Jeff Morgan, but that isn't stopping him from developing an immediate and intense dislike for the man.  
  
"And they're just letting you use their pool? Out the goodness of their hearts."  He says the cynism dripping like syrup from his voice.  
  
"Yes they are. What's your problem, Misha?" Jensen stops and looks at him, throwing the soggy towel on top of his bag.  
  
"No problem, just seems a bit weird them letting a complete stranger wander in and out of their yard whenever they feel like it." The more Misha says, the greater the danger he's going to say something dickish. It's a common problem he suffers from. It's also a flaw that Jensen is happy to call him on.  
  
"Don't be a dick, Misha. They're a nice couple. I've spoken to them a few times when I've been out walking while you've been busy working. Sam suggested that swimming would be a good way to work out without putting any pressure on my stump."  
  
"Residual limb," Misha snaps.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're supposed to call it a residual limb not a stump."  
  
"Jesus, it's my leg or what's left of it. I'll call it what I want. What the hell's crawled up your ass this afternoon?" Jensen's nose screws up in confusion at Misha's surly attitude and it's not cute. Not cute at all.  
  
"Nothing," Misha sighs, throwing his empty glass in the dishwasher and slamming the door behind him, cringing at the resulting sound of rattling glassware. Turning around, he leans back against the dishwasher and crosses his arms in a disapproving line across his chest. "Did you think about how you were getting in and out of the pool? Did you put your prosthetic somewhere where their yappy dog couldn't chew it? Did you at least remember to use sunscreen on your scars and your stump?"  
  
Jensen shakes his head, eyebrow raised at Misha's sudden transformation into a nagging parent. "Yes I did, I'm not an idiot and they don't have a dog, that's your neighbours on the other side; they've got a fugly looking terrier thing. Yes, I used the super strength sunblock that gonna keep me looking forever pale and interesting and hopefully my stupid freckles at bay as some small bonus. Sam even spread the lotion over my back for me."  
  
Well, it could have been worse, it could have been Jeff with his hands all over Jensen, and just F.Y.I. Misha likes Jensen's freckles actually. A lot. "I'd have put sunscreen on you, if you'd told me you were going out."  
  
"Jesus! Is that what's bugging you? You were in your studio, music blaring, completely oblivious to me when I poked my head round the door. I could have told you Zac Effron was pole-dancing naked in your bedroom and you wouldn't have noticed."  
  
No, he probably wouldn't have noticed that, but he sure as hell would have heard Jensen offering up the chance to get his hands on that gorgeous, perfectly-shaped back.  
  
"Look, I'm sorry if I worried you, Misha." Jensen holds his hands up as though he's trying to placate a fractious toddler. "I should have left a note or something. I didn't think. Next time I'll make sure you know where I'm going, okay?"  
  
Aw crap, now Misha feels like pond-scum. Here he is acting like a jealous douchebag because his neighbours are being, well... neighbourly, with their niceness and their pool and their hotness and their  Jensen fondling, and Jensen is the one apologizing. "It's fine Jen, don't mind me. I'm just pissed that my new piece isn't working out. It's not you, it's me."  
  
"Hah," laughs Jensen. "I bet you say that to all the boys!"  
  
"God, I take it back. It's all you," Misha mutters storming past Jensen and leaving the kitchen before Jensen sees the heat flood his face.  
  
Jensen however, having gotten the hang of his prosthetic leg incredibly quickly, is pretty damn fleet of foot now and Misha's escape isn't as successful as it once would have been. "Hey, Misha. You want to come swimming with me tomorrow? I'm sure Jeff and Sam wouldn't mind and you can see how very careful I'm being and how very nice your neighbours are."  
  
"I don't think so, Jen. I've a lot of work to do." And as much as seeing Jensen half naked is tempting, Jensen witnessing the resulting hard-on Misha is likely to develop is not.  
  
"Aw come on Misha,"Jensen wheedles from behind him. "An hour off won't kill you. It might do you good to get some exercise. You don't want your ass to get saggy."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"What? Nobody likes a saggy ass. Come on Misha, please."  
  
"Jesus, Jensen. Maybe, okay?"  
  
"Maybe? Is that a yes?"  
  
Misha stops abruptly, spins on his heels at the door to his studio and nearly ends up nose to nose with Jensen. "It's a maybe," he spits out. "Christ, Jen, how much coffee have you had today? You're acting like a kid on a sugar rush."  
  
Jensen's face falls at Misha's grouchy response and he stumbles backwards a step. "Sorry man, I don't know. I guess I was just in a good mood. It's nice to get out and do something different instead of just hanging about, getting under your feet all day.''  
  
Pond-scum is actually higher on the scale of decent life-forms than Misha right now. "I'm sorry, Jen. I'm an asshole, just ignore me. I'm glad you're happy, I really am. I'm gonna get back to work okay? Try and get myself out of this shitty mood."  
  
"Sure, no worries. I'll just go... do... something." Jensen turns and walks off, head dipped and shoulders drooping. And not even the sight of that gorgeous round ass wiggling in that obscenely tight swimsuit can cheer Misha up.  
  
  
  
Misha stands in his studio staring at the half-finished painting on his easel. It's not the abstract sunset he's spent hours and hours working on. It should be as he'd promised to have that commissioned piece done by the end of the week. He even has a brush in his hand, paint dripping from the bristles ready to put the finishing touches to the flaring sky, but he just can't force himself to turn away from a different canvas. Can't tear himself away from the brooding reflection of Jensen's face. He began painting this portrait a couple of weeks back but has never been able to complete it. Everytime he tries, something bubbles under his skin like a raging river torrent, his hand shakes and he can't seem to find the right strokes to perfect the image. His fingers skim over the picture, feeling the fine bumps of the canvas under his skin. Traces over the natural pout of dark lips, the contrast of the bursts of dark freckles against alabaster skin, the perfect cheekbones. The pain in the eyes gazing at him through a veil of thick eyelashes. Fuck! Misha runs his fingers through his hair, lets his legs fold under him, collapses down onto a chair.  
  
It's a cliché; falling in love with your best friend. Jensen obviously, not Jared who apart from being very not gay and very nearly married is not Misha's type, thank god.  
  
It's probably a cliché for a reason though, spending lots of time with someone you like has to push you towards feeling more than friendship, right? Especially when that someone is unattached, stunningly beautiful, good company, and apparently oblivious to your serious character flaws. That's all it is; close proximity.  
  
It might not even be love. Seriously, Misha doesn't even know what falling in love is supposed to feel like, it's not something he has any experience of. He doesn't do love. No, that's not true. Misha loves his mother and his grandparents, he loves his friends, and he loves painting. He just doesn't do falling in love, and although it'd give him a good excuse, it's not because he's the victim of some angst-ridden love story. He's never suffered a Romeo and Juliet/West Side Story grand tragedy. Never had an unrequited crush on anyone. Never been left devastated and broken hearted.  
  
He definitely has felt a rush of attraction to someone. Lots of someones; resulting in plenty of fun times and the need for many, many condoms. But that's not love; that's just biological urges.  
  
It's not that he doesn't believe in love and monogamy and all that happy-ever-after schtick either; Jared and Gen are a perfect example of true love, and despite the amount of ribbing Misha doles out to Jared about how sickeningly sweet he and Gen are, he does think it's kind of beautiful. Not that he’ll ever admit that out loud.  
  
No, he's just never felt the desire for anything more than a one night stand with any of the guys he's met. Get off, get out, no hassle, no emotional entanglements. Plenty of other guys out there are the same; he's not a freak or anything. It's just easier not to get involved with other people's complications. He doesn't hurt anyone and he doesn't leave anyone hanging. He's not a bad guy, he just likes to have a good time.  
  
So, this thing with Jensen has come at him out of left field, smacking him, at high velocity, square in the face. It's confusing to say the least. Jensen, for his part, has given Misha no indication that the feeling is mutual. Once or twice Misha thinks he's witnessed Jensen looking at him with a flicker of interest, a faint flush on his cheek, a darkness in his eyes. It's as likely to be wishful thinking on Misha's part as it is to be any attraction on Jensen's side. But maybe... just maybe-  
  
He should talk to Jensen. It's what any rational person would do. Sit down and talk it out, open the closet and let all the skeletons tumble out. It might be the best thing he ever does; what if the feeling's mutual and Jensen feels the same way? It might be the worst: what if Jensen thinks Misha has as much appeal as french kissing a dead cod? What if - God forbid - Jensen thinks Misha is just a weirdo with an amputation fetish? What if he feels so uncomfortable living with Misha afterwards that he moves out... on his own... with no-one to look out for him... with no Misha to look out for him? What if he doesn't want to risk their friendship? What if he does and Misha screws up... screws around... screws them both up?  
  
Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with love. Maybe Misha simply needs to get laid.  
  
Misha gazes up at the canvas. Shivers and wraps his arms around himself as Jensen stares down at him unseeing.  
  
It's late by the time Misha creeps out of his studio. Shadows sliding like liquid down the pale walls as the sun dips across the sky. He hasn't sorted his head out, hasn't come to any decisions, hasn't even committed a single drop of paint to canvas.  
  
Music is playing softly in the living room, guitars and banjos duelling in acoustic melody; a sound far removed from Jensen's usual loud and energetic rock beats. He walks in the room silently, curious as to what he's going to find. At the sight in front of him Misha's throat dries, his stomach lurches, and his cock twitches eagerly against his thigh. Jensen is lying on a yoga mat in the middle of the floor, on his stomach, legs stretched out behind him minus his prosthesis. He's leaning up on his elbows, back stretched in a graceful curve and head held high, displaying the vulnerable line of his throat to devastating effect. He's only clothed in a pair of soft jersey basketball shorts. That's all.  
  
The sudden urge to run back to his studio and wrap his fingers around a paintbrush hits him like a mack truck. He’s consumed by the desire to capture the fluid lines and delicate shades of Jensen's body, the creamy skin tones and hint of golden corn coloured freckles. Jensen was pretty when Misha first met him; his lean frame, lush eyelashes, sharp cheekbones, and full lips adding up to give him an almost feminine beauty. He’s grown into his looks magnificently. He’s still gorgeous but now, with his broad shoulders and defined muscles balancing out the delicateness of his features, he’s stunning. The scars running down his face and body don’t detract from his looks at all, if anything they emphasize it, show he has an inner strength that outshines the pretty packaging.  
  
Thankfully, Jensen's eyes are closed, dark lashes fluttering imperceptibly leaving Misha free to drink in the sight in front of him without obstruction.  
  
There's a beat of silence as the song playing on the I-Pod finishes and the next hesitates before strumming its first note, and Jensen's eyes drift open. "Oh, hey. Didn't think you were going to surface for a while yet," he says, dropping out of his stretch and rolling over to sit on his butt, arms winding around his torso self-consciously, hiding his body from Misha as usual. "I was just doing some of my exercises. Stretching out my muscles and-" Jensen's sentence drifts off and his head cocks to the side. "You okay, Misha?"  
  
Misha shakes himself out of his stupor. "Yeah, I'm good. Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."  
  
"No, it's fine," Jensen says, grabbing one of his crutches lying on the floor beside him and pushing himself up. "I was about done anyway; I'm just going to grab a quick shower."  
  
Misha wants to stop him, tell him he doesn't have to run away, doesn't have a single thing to be embarrassed about. That he's gorgeous and hot and perfect and Misha wants the chance to explore every inch of his lithe body, but the words fizzle and turn to ashes on his tongue and the sentence that leaves his mouth is entirely different. "I think I'm gonna head out tonight. Maybe hit a club or something and shake off some of the cobwebs."  
  
"Oh right, sure," Jensen says failing to hide his surprise but recovering his composure quickly. "That sounds great. I wouldn't mind getting out of here myself. You don't mind if I tag along, do you?"  
  
Misha fails even more spectacularly to hide his surprise. "You want to come out with me? To a club?"  
  
"Well, I can't hide away here forever."  
  
"No, I wasn't suggesting that you should, Jensen," Misha snaps. He doesn't mean to be a jerk but this conversation isn't going the way he planned at all. "I just didn't think you'd want to go to a club. I thought you'd be tired after all your exercise today. That you'd need to rest up tonight."  
  
"I've done nothing but rest up for months, Misha." Jensen replies stiffly. "But hey, if you want a night out away from me that's fine."  
  
"No, it's not that." Misha rushes to assure him even though that's totally what he wants just maybe not for the reason Jensen assumes. "I just didn't think you'd be that comfortable in a club with all those people."  
  
Jensen's fingers automatically shoot up to his face, hiding the thin red scar sweeping down his cheek and a searing flash of shame washes over Misha. "No... no Jensen, not because of your scars. Fuck no, you look gorgeous Jen, no-one even notices the scars I swear, man."  
  
Jensen shakes his head, disbelievingly. Misha's sure that when Jensen looks in a mirror, his scars are the only things he sees.  
  
"I just meant, you've never been all that fond of clubs and crowds of people."  
  
Jensen's face drops even further and a hint of defeat dims his eyes. "Yeah, you're right. It was a stupid idea. What am I gonna do in a club anyway? I'm still not supposed to drink and it's not like I'm going to be able to dance."  
  
"No, not unless your prosthetic has given you sudden powers of rhythm and co-ordination," Misha quips trying to save the conversation before Jensen slips back into the self-doubting melancholy that continues to lurk just under his surface.  
  
"Hey, I can dance," Jensen bites back.  
  
"Sure you can," Misha agrees. "Like a constipated penguin."  
  
"Like a... shut up! I suppose you think you're Bruno Tonioli."  
  
"Bruno who? Wait you watch Dancing With The Stars?" Misha cackles, wow, that's so much fresh blackmail material right there.  
  
"No." Jensen scowls before contemplating the implications of Misha's retort. "Ha, so do you."  
  
"What? No, I don't."  
  
Jensen grins smugly at him.  
  
"Whatever," Misha huffs. "I don't think there's any need to mention this to anyone, do you? Anyway, hurry up and use the shower. I need to shower too and shave before we go out."  
  
"Misha-"  
  
"Hurry up princess. I know how long it takes you to get ready and I'm not standing here all night waiting for you to gel every strand of hair in place."  
  
Misha's already walking through to his bedroom, effectively cutting off Jensen's protestations. The fact that, he didn't want Jensen accompanying him in the first place already slipped from his mind.  
  
  
             
  
  
  
  
Misha's an idiot. He doesn't mean to be but sometimes he doesn't think things all the way through. He picks a club that he knows isn't going to be overly crowded on a mid-week night. A club that's got plenty of room to sit down (for Jensen's benefit) and that turns a blind eye to anything licentious happening in dark corners and bathrooms (for Misha's benefit). So far, so good. What he'd failed to take into account was the fifty million stairs from the front door up to the club itself - slight exaggeration on the number of steps possibly, but it doubtless felt that many to Jensen.  
  
He may be pretty confident and sure-footed after two months of wearing a prosthesis, but stairs are still his nemesis. They don't have any at home which has always been an advantage, but it also means that Jensen doesn't have too much practice going up and down them, so he's understandably nervous when faced with the Mount Everest of staircases.  
  
By the time they've made their way up to the bar Jensen is soaked in sweat and clutching onto Misha's arm with the air of someone who's just survived an encounter with a great white shark, or been stuck in an elevator for three hours with the mother of the first boy he ever fucked - Misha still has the odd nightmare about that traumatic experience.  
  
"Two shots of Jim Beam," Misha asks the pink spiky haired bartender.  
  
"I'm not drinking, Misha," Jensen reminds him, climbing onto a barstool with very evident relief.  
  
"Just one Jen, for medicinal purposes. I'm sorry I forgot about all those stairs."  
  
Jensen wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. "It's fine, really, although I don't think those guys stuck behind me were very happy."  
  
"Nobody minded Jen," Misha says sliding a glass to him. "And fuck 'em if they did. Cheers."  
  
"Cheers," Jensen knocks back his shot, grimacing as the taste of bourbon hits the back of his throat. He never was that much of a drinker.  
  
Swivelling around and leaning back against the bar Misha gazes around the club. As he expected it isn't especially crowded but there's still plenty of people on the small dance floor.  
  
"It's okay if you want to get out there and dance, you know." Jensen says from beside him.  
  
"What? No, it's fine. I don't mind staying here with you."  
  
"I know you don't mind," Jensen's tone has lost some of its usual warmth and Misha turns his head to look at him. "But," Jensen continues, "you want to be out there. That's what you came out tonight for, not to babysit me." When he finishes talking the strained smile on Jensen's face doesn't even reach his eyes. Something cold slithers in Misha's belly despite the whisky.  
  
"Jensen really, it's fine. Do you want another drink?"  
  
"No, thanks." Jensen shakes his head, lips pursed.  
  
"Hey, I'll have a drink if you're buying, sugar. Something rich and creamy would be good."  
  
Jensen rolls his eyes and turns away as Misha switches his attention to the guy on the other side of him. He looks around twenty-two, dark blonde hair just long enough to grab hold of, slim tight little body, plush lips, and a deceivingly angelic smile. Just Misha's type. "How about we have a couple shots of whisky now and I'll make sure you get something creamy later."  
  
He dimly hears Jensen snort behind him and, okay, it isn't his best line but you have to work with what you've got. The guy running his fingers down Misha's arm obviously didn't think it was that bad.  
  
An hour later Tyler is pressed against Misha in the middle of the dance floor. His ass is grinding against Misha's crotch and Misha's fingers are spread across his narrow hips. The body heat and the music, the delicious friction against his cock, this is what Misha needed. Tyler reaches up and wraps his hands around Misha's neck and Misha can't resist trailing his fingers up that lean body. He bends down as Tyler twists his head around and their lips meet in a wet open-mouthed kiss.  
  
"You want to find somewhere a bit more private?" Tyler shout-whispers in his ear. Fuck yes, he does.  
  
Tyler grabs his hand and leads him from the dance floor towards the restroom. Misha glances towards the bar where he'd left Jensen nursing a soda and chatting with Allie, the pink haired bartender. He's now talking to some guy standing beside him who has a big meaty paw spread across his back. Misha’s eyes zero in on the scene at the bar immediately alert for any sign that Jensen is in trouble. On second glance though Jensen obviously isn’t minding the manhandling; his face is lit up in a genuine smile, and he's talking animatedly with his hands, a definite sign he's relaxed. Misha doesn't know the other guy, he looks big, bigger than Jensen, definitely beefier, huge wide shoulders and bulging muscles under his button-down. He's got a short scruffy beard and is wearing a navy cap. He is not Jensen's type, he's not. Not unless the Bear magazine has given him fresh ideas.  
  
He stumbles over his feet, unable to take his eyes off Jensen and Grizzly Adams as Tyler drags him through the club. Grizzly is staring at Jensen as though he wants to eat him, a predatory gleam lighting up his eyes, and Jensen doesn't appear remotely concerned. He loses sight of them as they turn into a narrow corridor. The men’s room is just up ahead, but Tyler opens a non-descript door just before they reach it and tugs Misha into a small closet. Misha's back is shoved against the door and Tyler's lips are sucking into his neck before Misha even has a chance to breathe.  
  
His hands rest loosely around Tyler's waist as he leans back and lets the kid do all the work. He's vaguely aware of fingers fumbling at his belt, slipping the buttons on his jeans free as Tyler nibbles his way down Misha's throat. The image of that chubby thug's hand on Jensen's back - no doubt slowly sliding its way down to his ass - won't shift from the front of Misha's mind though. What the hell is Jensen thinking, letting someone touch him like that? The asshole's probably just looking for a one night stand. Someone pretty enough to fuck in an empty stall in the restroom. That’s just wrong. Jensen deserves more than that. Jensen deserves to be with someone who knows him, knows how special he is.  
  
Mountain man out there has no idea of how amazing Jensen is, how strong and kind he is, how wickedly sarcastic he can be, and how he would do absolutely anything for his friends. He not going to have a clue how ridiculously bad Jensen is at dancing or how gorgeous he looks when he's just woken up and has fuzzy hair and pillow lines creased into his face. The big oaf doesn't even know how Jensen likes his coffee - strong and sweet. How much he detests jazz music, enough to hide Misha's CDs somewhere still unknown, or how much he secretly likes Taylor Swift but refuses to admit it even when caught shaking his ass singing 'we are never ever getting back together' at the top of his lungs.  
  
Meaty won't have a clue how much Jensen has survived, how much shit he still has to cope with every day. Jensen deserves so much better than being someone's quickly forgotten one night stand. He deserves to be worshipped and cared for. He deserves to be loved.  
  
"Hey baby, you with me?"  
  
Misha freezes, looks down to see Tyler on his knees, pulling Misha's jeans down his hips. Misha isn't even hard.  
  
What the fuck is he doing?  
  
What is he doing in here with this kid when the guy he loves is sitting outside? He's the biggest, stupidist, most moronic loser in the world. A goddamn lightning bolt should fucking zap him where he stands for being such a blind, idiotic dickhead.  
  
"Christ Tyler, I'm sorry. I can't do this."  
  
"What? What's wrong?" Tyler drops his hands from Misha's thighs and pushes up to his feet looking equal parts confused and pissed.  
  
"I shouldn't be doing this. With you. I'm sorry... I really am but this is a huge mistake." Misha scrambles to fasten his jeans back up feeling like a complete ass. Tyler is a nice kid, Misha should never have led him on like this.  
  
"What did I do?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing Tyler. I swear it's me, it's got nothing to do with you." That seems to be a theme lately; maybe he should do something to change that. "You're a gorgeous kid. You deserve better than this."  
  
"Look man, all I want to do is to suck your dick and get off. I'm not looking for a boyfriend or anything."  
  
And doesn't that sound incredibly familiar. "Okay that's fine. There's nothing wrong with that, but I want more now."  
  
"Not with me?" Misha almost laughs at the horror in Tyler's voice. He shakes his head, smoothes down the front of his jeans, then runs his fingers through his hair trying to persuade it to behave so for once it doesn't look like he was just fucking someone in a storage closet.  
  
"No, as great as you are Tyler, not with you."  
  
"Okay, okay then. Well... thanks for not fucking me before your epiphany... I guess. Go get your guy. It is at least a guy isn't it?"  
  
"Yes," nervous laughter bubbles out of Misha. "He is very definitely a guy."  
  
"Go get him then, tiger," Tyler says shoving him out of the door.  
  
  
  
Jensen's not where Misha left him. Goddamn it. There's no sign of him or the grabby handed grizzly.  
  
"Allie... Aliie!" Misha waves trying to attract the bartender’s attention.  
  
"You want another shot?" She asks looking harried as a twink with the worst blond highlights Misha has ever seen shouts at her from the other side of the bar.  
  
"No... I was just wondering-"  
  
"You yell at me one more time, sweetie and your next drink’s gonna end up poured over your head," she snaps making the poor guy with the unfortunate hair look like he's about to cry. "Wondering what? And could you make it quick; I'm kinda busy here."  
  
"Did you see where my friend went? The guy I came in with?"  
  
"The cutie with the freckles and the lips? Sure, he left with tall, dark, and broody about ten minutes ago. Did your mamma never warn you not to piss off someone serving you food or drinks, sweetie? No? She never warned you about trying to color your own hair either, did she?"  
  
Allie is off leaving Misha standing on his own at a loss of what to do next.  
  
They can't have gotten far, especially not with all those stairs for Jensen to descend. Misha hurries to the exit, half expecting and fully hoping Jensen still to be struggling half-way down. There's no sign of him and no sign of him anywhere outside either. An empty can lying innocently on the sidewalk feels the full weight of Misha's frustration, flying into the middle of the road off the toe of his shoe. He doesn't know if he's madder at himself for letting Jensen go, or madder at Jensen for disappearing. It's easier to be mad at Jensen even if it is totally undeserved.  
  
  
  
Three hours later Misha's a mess. His hair is destroyed; he probably looks like some weird mad professor who's stuck his finger in a light socket. His palms are damp, his nails bitten, and there's a trickle of sweat running down the middle of his back, indicating he's probably not smelling all that pleasant either. It's surprising there's not a groove worn in the floor between his front window and door where he's spent most of his time pacing angrily since he caught the first cab home he could find. Well, it started off as angry pacing but has since progressed through slightly concerned to anxious and is now hovering at worried senseless.  
  
He's standing behind the front door when he hears a car door slamming shut. He doesn't open the door - he made that mistake earlier and nearly gave some teenage boy, who looked like he was trying eat a girl's face, a heart-attack; he probably thought the maniac with the wild hair and crazy eyes was his girl's rampaging daddy. Instead, he paces back to his window and peers out like some kind of neighbourhood watch snooper. Son-of-a-bitch! Big, buff, and butch is giving Jensen a bear-hug, either that or he's trying to crack his spine. Misha spins away from the window and barely resists storming out into the street and dragging Jensen into the house. He has enough sense left to know that won't go down well.  
  
Misha's standing in the hallway when Jensen eventually opens the door. His temper has ramped right back up to mightily pissed off now that Jensen is obviously alive and apparently unharmed.  
  
"Where the fuck have you been?" Misha explodes the second the door closes behind Jensen, his voice shockingly loud, crashing against the walls in the cramped hallway  
  
Jensen's head jerks up, eyes widening in surprise for a split-second before narrowing to slits. "What the hell has it got to do with you?" He asks, throwing his keys on the shelf beside the door.  
  
"What's it got to do with me? I've been waiting all night for you to get home, you asshole. You just disappeared, you didn't even tell me you were leaving."  
  
"You were off fucking some twink in a dark corner somewhere. What exactly did you want me to do?" Jensen says shoving his way roughly past Misha.  
  
"I wasn't... you could have at least called my cell," Misha retorts to the back of Jensen's head as he chases him through the house.  
  
"I didn't have my phone with me."  
  
"Why didn't you just wait for me then?"  
  
"You know what Misha; I'm done waiting for you." Jensen throws open the door of his bedroom forcefully enough to scare the poor thing nearly off its hinges.  
  
"What? What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Misha says, trailing him all the way to his bed where Jensen stiffly lowers himself down.  
  
"Nothing Misha. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing." Jensen rubs his hands over his face, suddenly looking as tired as he should at this time of night. "Look, I don't know what the fuck your problem is but all I did was go and have a coffee and talk to a friend after you picked up your lucky playmate for the night. Maybe I should have let you know where I was going, but frankly it didn't look like you even remembered I existed and I figured you were gonna be occupied for the rest of the night."  
  
"Nothing happened," Misha says. "Between me and Tyler. Nothing happened."  
  
"Yeah?" Jensen looks dubious. "It didn't look like nothing was happening on the dance floor; you were all over each other. Anyway, it's nothing to do with me, is it? You know Misha I'm exhausted; I just want to go to bed. Can we talk about whatever this is in the morning, please?"  
  
"Jensen... " Misha has so much he needs to say. He's had all night to think about everything he wants to tell Jensen but now that the opportunity is here, his courage has fled the building. "Jensen... I... he's just a friend?"  
  
"What? Who... Ty? Yeah, he's a friend. He's a photographer. I worked with him a couple of years ago. Misha really... I don't think-"  
  
"You're tired, I know. I'll see you in the morning. Later in the morning." Misha shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to leave. He makes it as far as the door before deciding - fuck it - if he doesn't do it now, he never will.  
  
Spinning back round to face Jensen he lets every thought in his head tumble loose. "I was jealous... of Ty. He was touching you and I was so jealous that I wanted to rip his arms off. I didn't do anything with Tyler because he wasn't you. I haven't wanted to do anything with anyone for months because the only person I can think about is you. I think about you all the time, I think about what I want to do with you, what I want you to do to me. I think about your green eyes and your gorgeous lips and your smile and your amazing body that you keep fucking hiding from me. I think about finding and kissing every single one of your freckles -"  
  
"Misha...” Jensen looks up at Misha with an expression of stunned shock on his face.  
  
"You've made me feel things that I've never felt, that I've never wanted to feel. I'm so fucking confused that I can't even think straight. I think I love you Jensen... no, no... I don't think, I do... I love you. I don't want anyone else. I want you. Forever, with me, here, to stay."  
  
"Uh..." says Jensen and Misha feels like a lead weight has plunged to the bottom of his stomach.”You love me? After being friends for, what, nine years... you suddenly decide that you love me now." His fingers absently trace over the scar etched down the side of his face before he curls his arms around his chest defensively. "Now, I look like this. You expect me to believe that?"  
  
"Jensen you're just as beautiful, no, more beautiful now than ever. No... shut up and listen to me. Every time you put yourself down it makes me want to punch something. How can you be so blind? You're still you, maybe you're not so shiny and intimidatingly perfect anymore, but that doesn't change who you are. If I lost an arm or leg or turned blue overnight would it change who I am?"  
  
A smirk tugs up the corner of Jensen's lips, "Well, it might. I'd be a bit concerned you'd changed into a Smurf if you suddenly turned blue."  
  
"Shut up, you jerk... I'm baring my soul to you here."  
  
"Sorry, just got a vision of you in my head as a Smurf, it's kinda cute."  
  
"Jensen!"  
  
"Sorry, sorry, my bad. Soul baring, right, on you go."  
  
Misha doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, but at least the atmosphere in the room doesn't feel so dangerously weighted down any more. He walks back across to Jensen, sits down on the bed beside him, bumping their shoulders together.  
  
"I'm serious you know. I love you."  
  
"Are you sure?" Jensen asks quietly dropping his hands into his lap, nervously twisting his fingers together.  
  
"Yeah, I am." Misha says, hoping that Jensen can hear the honesty in his voice. "I've been in knots for weeks about this. I think... I think ever since I thought about you not being in my life, it made me realize how much I loved you. How lost I'd be without you. And of course, the fact that I pop a boner every time I see you half naked is a big flashing clue as well."  
  
"Are you sure you don't just need to get laid?" It's said lightly, as though Jensen is joking, but Misha knows there's an underlying seriousness there.  
  
"I'm absolutely certain. Of course, if you're offering, I wouldn't say no but I've got to tell you; if you let me in to your bed you're never going to get me out of it. I want this, us... forever not just for one night. I'm not saying I'm going to be the perfect boyfriend because this relationship stuff is all new to me and I might... no... I'm bound to fuck up occasionally and piss you off, but I want to be with you. I love you, Jensen."  
  
Jensen is silent beside him. Misha reaches across, places his hand over Jensen's, stilling them. "If you don't feel the same way just tell me. I'm a big boy Jen, I'll get over it, I won't blame you. We'll still be friends. I promise it won't change anything. If you need time, I'll wait. I'll wait-"  
  
"Nine years?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"That's how long we've known each other, nine years."  
  
Misha doesn't get it. "Yeah, around that I guess. So?"  
  
"So? So that's how long I've been waiting for you, you moron. I fell in love the minute I saw you sitting on Jared's bed in our dorm room. You were dressed in skinny black jeans and a faded Ramones tee-shirt and I thought you were so fucking cool, the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. Your bright blue eyes and all that dark tousled hair, your hands... Christ, the things I dreamt about you doing with those hands. You have no idea."  
  
"But... why didn't you say?"  
  
"Because I was a shy little nobody. I hadn't even kissed a boy. You were out and proud and confident and so far out of my league that it was goddamn ridiculous. I couldn't even look at you without blushing or stammering like an idiot. It was a nightmare for months. By the time I sorted my head out and managed to get out the other side of the clusterfuck that exploded when I came out, you'd already slept with half the campus. I figured I'd rather have you in my life as a friend than risk losing you altogether by telling you how I felt. I never wanted to be just another notch on your bedpost. I still don't."  
  
"You won't be, I swear Jensen. You won't be... fuck, I never knew... I can't believe, all this time."  
  
"Yeah, well. It's not like I swore myself to a life of celibacy or anything just in case you got your head out of your ass. I guess I just never really gave up hope, that one of these days you'd grow up and realize that you deserved more than one night stands. If I knew that all it would take was me nearly dying then I-"  
  
"Jensen, don't...” Misha can't joke about that. It's not funny. The thought, the memories of how close he came to losing Jensen altogether will never be funny.  
  
Jensen's hands twists under his until he's the one holding Misha's hand. "I love you too, Misha. I want to be with you too, but you know better than anyone that I'm still not in the greatest of places right now. I mean, I'm getting better...I am, but sometimes I'm going to get angry and pissed off or depressed and miserable. I'm not always gonna be a joy to be around. Are you sure you want me and all my baggage because if we do this and you break my heart, I don't think we can be friends anymore. Not after Chris breaks your legs anyway."  
  
Jensen looks up from their entwined hands just as Misha turns his head and for the first time Misha can see the hope and fear warring in his face. "I'm not going to do anything to hurt you. I'm not going to risk losing you again, I swear."  
  
It's a matter of inches, the distance in between them. Misha swears his heart stops beating, expands and fills his chest as he leans forward and closes the gap. His lips brush Jensen's, it's a tickle, the suggestion of a kiss until it's more, until it's Jensen responding. It's Jensen's lips pressing against Misha's, Jensen's hands finding their way to cradle Misha's face then tangling in his hair and drawing them together until their mouths open and the kiss deepens to something more urgent. Sparks fire through Misha, blinding him to everything except the taste of Jensen. This, this is what he wants, forever.  
  
They're gasping for breath when they eventually break apart. Jensen's green eyes are darker than Misha has ever seen them, his lips shining wet and swollen. His fingers still twisted in Misha's hair. Jensen's head dips forward, pressing their foreheads together as they breathe in the same heated air.  
  
"I love you." Misha doesn't know if he says it or Jensen does. Maybe they both do. It's true anyway. This is love, Misha doesn't know everything but he knows for sure, this is the love he's been waiting for without even knowing it.  
  
"Not to ruin the moment or anything," Jensen says. "But my leg is really fucking sore. You think I can take this prosthesis off and grab some painkillers before we go any further."  
  
"Why didn't you say you were in pain you fucking idiot," Misha pushes Jensen's shoulders, wincing as Jensen's fingers hadn't quite untangled from his hair but definitely have now.  
  
Jensen rubs his knee a bit sheepishly, "I didn't think the timing was quite right to bring it up. I'm telling you now, aren't I?"  
  
"Fucking idiot."  
  
Forty minutes later, Jensen is dosed up on painkillers, his leg sore and swollen after wearing his prosthetic limb for hours longer than he should have done. They don't even kiss again. Misha just crawls into bed behind him, tugs him tight against his chest so they are pressed together skin to skin and falls asleep, with his nose buried in Jensen's hair, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. There's no need to rush anything now anyway. They've waited this long for one another, a little longer won't hurt.  
  
  
  
 **Epilogue**  
  
Jensen's hands slide down the mirror, finger marks streaking down the misted surface as he grapples to find purchase on something. He finds the faucet and holds on for grim life as Misha smirks behind him at the debauched expression on his face. His eyes clenched shut, mouth hanging open and cheeks flushed scarlet. Moans leaving his mouth with every exhale.  
  
"You like that Jensen? Did I hit the right spot that time?" His finger is knuckle deep in Jensen's ass tapping against the little nub that's such a spectacularly sensitive spot for his boyfriend. His other hand is under Jensen's undershirt, flat against the warmth of his belly, which flutters every time Misha's finger moves against his prostate. He doesn't expect Jensen to answer, he's not one for small talk, especially when his pants are down round his knees, legs spread as wide as they’ll go, ass tipped up as he bends over eagerly for Misha.  
  
"So fucking hot, Jensen. Open your eyes and look. Come on Jen, look in the mirror. You're such a fucking hot mess when my finger's opening you up."  
  
Jensen somehow pries his eyes open and meets Misha's gaze in the foggy reflection of the mirror. His pupils are shot, wide and dark making him look wild and desperate. It's Misha's favorite expression in the world.  
  
He bites his teeth into the juncture of his lover's neck and shoulder, just hard enough to know his mark is going to be hiding under the collar of Jensen’s shirt all afternoon, then he slides his finger out of Jensen's ass to a long breathy groan of disappointment. He doesn't give Jensen enough time to complain though; he kneels down, pulls apart the cheeks of Jensen’s ass and licks around the rim of his hole. Jensen gasps and his knees buckle just for a moment at the familiar sensation. Jensen loves this, loves to feel Misha's tongue deep inside of him, licking him out, making him wet and messy and dirty. Misha loves whatever makes Jensen groan senselessly, loves watching him come undone.  
  
They don't have long unfortunately, so he doesn't spend as much time as he'd like shoving his tongue as far into Jensen's hole as he can reach. Jensen's musky taste exploding on his tongue under the taste of cherry flavored lube just encourages him to delve further, his face buried between Jensen's ass cheeks until he's in danger of suffocating. Finger marks branded in red welts into the flesh of Jensen's ass.  
  
His own dick is throbbing, in pain as much as pleasure, as it rubs against the zipper of his pants desperately straining for freedom. Going commando, while convenient at times like these, can sometimes be a bad idea. He draws back, stands up and grins at the mess of Jensen; his white knuckled grip on the sink, the beads of sweat trickling down his face. There's going to be no way of hiding what they've been doing in here.  
  
Drawing his hand back, he smacks Jensen's ass just to see the perfect round cheek bounce, does the same to the other side just to see the scowl it produces on Jensen's face. He undoes the fly of his pants and grabs the small bottle of lube lying in the sink, coats his dick quickly and generously, and presses what’s left in his hand into Jensen's spit soaked hole. Jacks his dick once, twice, three times, grins at the impatient glower on Jensen's face then pushes steadily in to the welcoming grip of his boyfriend's ass, slow enough not to hurt, fast enough not to tease. He doesn't stop until he's buried balls deep, his head drops to Jensen's back as he tries to think about something to stop himself from coming humiliatingly quickly. Feeling Jensen take him in so willingly, nothing separating them, all that tight heat clamped around him will never not be enough to drive him to the edge.  
  
He doesn't move until he has control of himself. Lifting his head he sees Jensen watching him in the mirror, a hint of a smirk lighting up his eyes.  
  
"Don't worry baby, not gonna come before I fuck you senseless."  
  
Jensen's objection to the pet name is lost as Misha pulls out then drives back in, forcing a grunt to punch from his mouth instead. With one hand gripping Jensen's shoulder and another digging pits into his narrow waist, Misha fucks him deep, hard and steady, the way they both like. Long smooth thrusts that gather momentum until they're both panting, struggling to inhale enough oxygen as Misha's hips slam against Jensen's ass, not letting up for even a moment. Misha can't see Jensen's face in the mirror anymore; their hot breaths swirling together and filling the small room, raising the temperature and covering the mirror in a thick layer of condensation. He can hear Jensen though, hear the low gasps and bitten off moans. He can feel Jensen underneath him, pushing himself back onto Misha's cock as hard as Misha's thrusting into him, feel him trembling and squirming with need.  
  
Misha can't hold off, can't stop the inevitable from happening. His balls are drawn up tight and hard, a tingle in his guts sparks into a bright fire of ecstasy that rushes over him, stealing his breath completely as he unravels, spilling into Jensen's ass with a drawn out groan. He keeps moving, hips swivelling against Jensen's ass until the last of his orgasm fades away.  
  
"Fuck," he breathes out, presses a kiss against the nape of Jensen's neck. His hair is dark with sweat and plastered against his damp skin. "You okay?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"No? Fuck, did I hurt you. Is it your leg... shit Jensen... "  
  
Misha pulls out - too quickly - winces, manhandles Jensen until they're face to face. Examines his face, searching for any signs of pain, the fine lines that crinkle at the corners of his eyes when something's aching. He doesn't find them. Jensen leans forward licks his way into Misha's mouth, kisses the worry clear from his mind before whispering in his ear, "My leg isn't sore you idiot but my dick feels kind of neglected."  
  
"Asshole!" Misha hisses, “I was worried." He shoves Jensen back until his ass is resting against the sink taking some of the weight off his legs, drops to his knees, and grins up at Jensen licking his lips. Jensen's fingers scrunch into his hair, and he doesn't quite yank Misha's head forward but the insinuation is clear; if Misha doesn't stop messing around Jensen is quite prepared to force the issue. As fun as a pissed and desperate Jensen is, it's probably not the time to push him into fucking Misha's face, not this early in the day anyway. Misha slides his hands up Jensen's thighs, he loves the feel of those firm muscles - has developed quite a kink - follows the path of his fingers with his tongue. Licks a stripe up the inside of Jensen's thigh 'til he reaches his balls, heavy and full. Laps gentle licks against them until they're soaked with spit, Jensen's cock is jumping, hard and needy, and his fingers are twisting painfully in Misha's hair.  
  
Looking up at Jensen through his eyelashes, Misha opens his mouth and swallows him down. Can't quite deep throat, not without getting messy, too messy, so he sucks as far as he can, toys at the underside of Jensen's cock with his tongue. Jensen's hips start to move, not fucking but gently stuttering like he's trying not to move but can't hold still. Misha relaxes his throat, tries to swallow more, and ignores the tears threatening at the corner of his eyes. Slips a finger behind Jensen's balls, up the dip of his ass cheeks, slides in through the come leaking out of Jensen's hole until he's knuckle deep again, searching for that sweet spot. He slips a second finger in beside the first, rubs across the spot, sucks and swallows. Jensen bucks forward, cries out, hot come spurting down Misha's throat.  
  
Misha swallows down all he can before he lets Jensen pull out and tries not to cough. Chases after the string of come leaking from Jensen's cock, licks his lips. Pushing to his feet he leans in and kisses Jensen until they're both filthy with come and spit.  
  
"Great," says Jensen. "I'm covered in your come and mine. This isn't going to be awkward at all."  
  
"Shut up princess," Misha says, wiping his hands on Jensen's ass but licking a smear of come from the corner of his mouth at the same time. "I'll help clean you up."  
  
Jensen eyebrows nearly hit his hairline but before he can respond there's battering on the door behind them.  
  
"You two better not be in there."  
  
"We'll be out in a minute," Misha yells stepping away from Jensen with a wink and shimmying his pants back up.  
  
"And you'd better not look like you've just been fucking when you get out here."  
  
Misha looks at the bright red flush on Jensen's face, his swollen lips, crumpled shirt, and wrinkled pants. The stream of come dripping down the back of his legs. Runs a hand through his own nest of hair and looks down at his tie that now has a dubious white stain down the center of it. "Erm... maybe give us a couple of minutes then.”  
  
"For Christ’s sake, can you two not keep your hands off one another for one goddamn afternoon?"  
  
"Sorry," Jensen shouts grabbing a towel and wiping the come off his thighs.  
  
"We've a lot of wasted time to make up for," Misha says, trying to figure the best way to remove spunk stains from silk in a hurry.  
  
"Not on my fucking wedding day, you assholes!" Jared yells back, kicking the door furiously when the only response is matching sniggering.  
  
The bride is radiant, the groom is handsome and if the best-men look well fucked, no-one mentions it. Well... not until the speeches anyway.

 

  
  
Finis - Thank you for reading!

 

 


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